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BHNHFIT  OF  THE  PRISON  INMATliS, 


Compiled  by  JAMEa  GAULEY 

floral  TiisfiiirtorStiitc  Prison  at  Fol.suni. 


"A  man  »|!vferfAlls  so  low  but  that  he  may  rise,  and  never  rises 
so  hitrh  li\it  that  lie  niav  falli 


; I'A  I'l-;  (iKi'iri: 


SACRAMENTO: 

:    J.  D.  YOrNO,    SIU'T. 

1888. 


;l'ArF.    I'KINTIMG. 


,^=^^ 


I 


X 


SELFXTIONS 


FROM  STANDARD  AUTHORS, 


BENEFIT  OF  THE  PRISON  INMATES. 


Compiled  by  JAMES  GAULEY, 

Moral  Instructor  State  Prison  at  Folsom. 


"A  man  never  falls  so  low  but  that  he  may  rise,  and  never  rises 
so  high  but  that  he  may  fall." 


SACRAMENTO : 

STATE    OFFICE     :    :    :     J.    D.    YOUNG,    SUPT.    STATE   PRINTING. 

1888. 


Presented  to  the  inmates  of  the  State  Prison  at  Folsom,  vnth 
the  Editor's  kind  regards. 


A 


PREFACE. 


To  THE  Inmates  op  the  State  Prison  at  Folsom,  California: 

In  view  of  the  limited  amount  of  reading  matter  in  the  Prison 
Library,  the  idea  suggested  itself  to  my  mind  that  a  pamphlet 
containing  brief  and  terse  extracts  from  the  writings  of  a  few  of 
the  best  standard  authors,  together  with  a  few  of  my  own  sug- 
gestions, might  confer  a  positive  benefit  upon  the  younger,  and 
meet  the  approbation  of  the  older  inmates  of  the  Prison,  I  com- 
piled the  one  herewith  presented.  And  with  the  hope  that  it  will 
be  received  by  you  with  all  its  imperfections,  and  in  the  same 
spirit  that  prompted  its  compilation,  I  remain  your  sincere  friend; 
and  also  in  the  belief  that  '"Our  greatest  glory  is  not  in  never 
falling,  but  in  rising  every  time  we  fall." 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 

The  KeadinR  Habit 1 5 

What  Books  to  Read,  with  Remarks _ 6 

Poetry 12 

Thoughts  for  a  Young  Man 18 

A  Word  to  the  Younger  Inmates  of  the  Prison 19 

The  Art  of  Skipping 20 

Remembering  What  One  Reads 24 

Conversation 26 

Book  Knowledge 29 

Learn  to  be  Brief 29 

Brevities 30 

Good  Sense 31 

Learn  How  to  Reason 32 

On  Discretion 33 

Self-Respect 34 

The  School  of  DiflBculties  the  Best  Instructor 36 

Temper 40 

The  Evils  Which  Flow  from  Unrestrained  Passions 51 

Tolerance  _ 52 

Good-Breeding 53 

Manners  and  Morals 54 

Lying 58 

Friendship Gl 

Resistance  to  Temptation  . 63 

Miscellaneoiis .. 64 

He's  Lost  His  Grip 68 

A  Colloqujf  Between  Locke  and  Bayle 71 

On  the  Immortality  of  the  Soul 73 

A  Father's  Pathetic  Appeal 76 

The  Opium  Habit 77 

Horatio  Sej'mour's  Address 81 

Be  Careful  What  You  Say 87 

The  Prison  Bell 88 

In  Prison 89 


SELECTIONS. 


THE  READING  HABIT. 

[RICHARDSON.] 

Were  I  to  pray  for  a  taste,  says  Sir  John  Herschell,  "  which 
should  stand  me  in  stead  under  every  variety  of  circumstances, 
and  be  a  source  of  happiness  and  cheerfuhiess  to  nie  during  hfe, 
and  a  shield  against  its  ills,  how  everything  might  go  amiss,  it 
would  be  a  taste  for  reading.  Give  a  man  this  taste,  and  the 
means  of  gratifying  it,  and  you  can  hardly  fail  of  making  him  a 
happy  man;  unless,  indeed,  you  put  into  his  hands  a  most  per- 
verse selection  of  books.  You  place  him  in  contact  with  the  best 
society  in  every  period  of  history,  with  the  wisest,  the  wittiest,  the 
tenderest,  the  bravest,  and  the  purest  characters  who  have  adorned 
humanity. 

"  You  make  him  a  denizen  of  all  nations — a  contemporary  of  all 
ages.  The  world  has  been  created  for  him.  Nothing  can  supply 
the  place  of  books.  They  are  cheering  and  soothing  companions 
in  solitude,  and  in  illness  or  affliction.  The  wealth  of  both  con- 
tinents could  not  compensate  for  the  good  they  impart." 

Fenelon  said:  "  If  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  empire  were  laid  at 
my  feet  in  exchange  for  my  books  and  love  of  reading,  I  would 
spurn  them  all." 

And  the  historian  Gibbon,  wrote-  "A  taste  for  books  is  the 
pleasure  and  glory  of  my  life.  I  would  not  exchange  it  for  the 
glory  of  the  Indies."  Mere  acquired  knowledge  belongs  to  us  only 
like  a  wooden  leg  and  a  wax  nose. 

'^  Knowledge  attained  by  means  of  thinking,  resembles  our  nat- 
ural limbs,  and  is  the  only  kind  that  really  belongs  to  us.  Hence 
the  difference  between  the  thinker  and  the  pedant.  The  intellec- 
tual possession  of  the  independent  thinker  is  like  a  beautiful 
picture  which  stands  before  us — a  living  thing,  with  fitting  light 
and  shadow,  sustained  tones,  perfect  harmony  of  color. 

"That  of  the  merely  learned  man  may  be  compared  to  a  pallet 
covered  with  bright  colors.     To  hioiv  one  good  book  well,  is  better 


than  to  know  something  about  a  hundred  good  books  at  second 
hand." 

The  ordinary  reader  is  profoundly  indifferent  about  style,  and 
will  not  take  the  trouble  to  understand  ideas.  He  keeps  to  peri- 
odicals or  light  fiction,  which  enables  the  mind  to  loll  in  its  easy 
chair  (so  to  speak),  and  see  pass  before  it  a  series  of  pleasing 
images. 

An  idea,  as  Mark  Pattison  says,  is  an  excitant,  comes  from 
mind  and  calls  forth  mind;  an  image  is  a  sedative;  and  most 
people,  when  they  take  up  a  book,  are  seeking  a  sedative. 


WHAT  BOOKS  TO  READ. 

[editor.] 

In  view  of  the  shortness  of  life,  and  that  "there  are  twenty-five 
thousand  books  published  annually,"  and  also  that  there  are  one 
hundred  millions  in  the  world — one  library  in  France  contains 
three  millions — it  is  not  surprising  that  I  am  so  often  asked  by  the 
new  beginner,  and  those  beginning  to  read  late  in  life,  "What 
books  ought  I  read?  "  I  would  suggest  to  the  former,  and  to  the 
latter  also,  that  they  will  very  likely  derive  the  following  benefits 
from  reading  Sir  Walter  Scott's  works  : 

Firstly,  they  will  very  likely  obtain,  unwittingly  perhaps,  such 
a  desire  for  reading,  and  reading  onl}^  the  best  authors,  as  to  pre- 
vent them  from  reading  the  coarse,  weak,  and  vulgar  trash  now 
flooding  the  country,  and  working  such  widespread  demoraliza- 
tion throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land,  as  to  arrest 
the  attention  of  all  those  who  have  the  least  sympathy  with  their 
kind. 

In  a  late  issue  of  the  "  Philadelphia  Ledger  and  Transcript," 
the  editor  of  that  journal  says:  "Having  taught  boys  to  read, 
society  ought  to  make  every  possible  effort  to  guide  their  reading 
so  that  their  education  shall  be  of  advantage  to  them.  At  pres- 
ent it  seems  as  though  the  chief  use  made  of  the  little  learning 
some  boys  acquire  in  school  is  in  the  reading  of  demoralizing 
books  and  '  flash'  newspapers,  whereby  they  are  incited  to  become 
thieves  and  outlaws,  in  emulation  of  the  heroes  pictured  in  this 


pernicious  literature.  Many  cases  have  been  reported  of  late,  and 
only  a  few  days  ago  six  small  boys  were  arrested  in  New  York  for 
robbing  grocery  stores.  From  the  proceeds  of  their  robberies  they 
bought  vile  papers  and  books  which  they  also  read  together  in  an 
old  woodshed,  where  they  also  drank  beer  obtained  by  barter  of 
their  stolen  provisions.  In  other  words,  they  had  used  the  little 
education  obtained  in  public  schools  to  start  a  school  of  their  own, 
wherein  they  could  study  to  be  criminals  'without  a  master.' 
These  are  types  of'  hundreds  or  thousands.  *  *  *  *  It  is  a 
much  simpler  matter  to  guide  boys  and  girls  in  the  right  way 
than  it  is  to  forcibly  restrain  or  punish  them  after  they  have 
grown  to  be  men  and  women,  have  formed  bad  habits,  and  per- 
haps joined  the  '  criminal  classes.'  " 

Secondly,  by  reading  "  Ivanhoe  "  the  reader  will  obtain  as  cor- 
rect an  account  of  the  manners,  habits,  and  customs  of  the  people 
who  lived  during  the  "  middle  ages "  as  he  would  obtain  from 
reading  ''  Froissart's  Chronicles,"  which  are  merely  a  bundle  of 
dry  facts  which  Froissart  obtained  in  traveling  over  Europe,  and 
upon  which  so  many  historical  novels  are  founded. 

Scott's  "  Tales  of  a  Grandfather  "  will  also  give  the  reader  a  very 
correct  history  of  Scotland,  and  also  a  graphic  and  instructive 
description  of  the  "  Border  Wars  "  between  the  Scotch  and  En- 
glish people.  In  a  word,  I  would  advise  the  reader  to  read  all  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott's  works,  with  the  exception  of  his  "  Life  of 
Napoleon,"  which  he  evidently  wrote  for  political  effect,  as  well 
as  for  the  ''  canny  purpose  "  of  filling  his  purse  and  the  gratifica- 
tion of  his  prejudices. 

The  next  author  I  would  recommend  to  the  reader  is  Charles 
Dickens;  because  no  one,  I  imagine,  could  read  Dickens  without 
he,  the  reader,  wishing  that  he  were  a  better  man. 

If  we  estimate  greatness  by  the  moral  effect  produced  upon  the 
public  mind,  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  Dickens  was  the  great 
moralist  of  the  nineteenth  century,  as  no  one  man  ever  did  half 
as  much  as  he  in  correcting  and  in  abolishing  the  many  flagrant 
abuses  that  existed  in  England  during  the  time  in  which  he 
wrote.  And  let  me  add  here  that,  in  reading  Dickens,  the  reader 
should  keep  constantly  in  view  that  he,  Dickens,  wrote  as  he  did 
for  the  express  purpose  of  calling  public  attention  to  those  abuses, 


—  8  — 

and  not  for  tlie  purpose  of  wea\dng  ingenious  plots,  like  those  of 
G.  P.  R.  James. 

Thirdly,  by  reason  of  Dickens'  great  capacity,  and  the  broad 
humanitarian  feeling  he  had  for  his  fellow-man,  he  has  enabled 
us,  to  a  very  great  extent,  to  "  see  ourselves  as  others  see  us,"  and 
also  to  see,  in  the  poor  and  lowly,  great  and  noble  traits  of  char- 
acter, who  could  not,  to  paraphrase  Pope,  "boast  of  ancestry 
whose  ignoble  blood  had  crept  through  scoundrels  ever  since  the 
flood." 

A  late  critic,  who  claims  to  have  been  personally  acquainted 
with  several  persons  from  whom  Dickens  drew  his  characters, 
says  that  Dickens'  characters  are  mere  "phantoms."  While  the 
critic's  statement  may  be  true  in  a  few  instances,  it  cannot  be 
true  in  the  main,  for  the  reason  that  we  meet  with  Dickens'  char- 
acters in  e very-day  life.  I  am  of  the  opinion  that  if  the  critic 
referred  to  would  station  himself  at  the  corner  of  Pine  and  Mont- 
gomery Streets,  in  San  Francisco,  he  would  see  fifty  "  Micaw- 
bers "  within  as  many  minutes  "  waiting  for  something  to  turn 
up."  And  if  the  critic,  before  leaving  his  post,  should  ask  a 
"Forty-niner"  if  he  had  ever  cabined  with  a  "Quilp,"  or  an  old 
sailor  if  he  had  ever  had  a  "  Quilp  "  for  a  shipmate,  that  he,  the 
critic,  would  receive  an  affirmative  answer  in  both  cases. 

And  as  for  "  Pecksniffs,"  they  are  to  be  found  in  every  community 
wherein  "Christian  statesmen"  thirst  for  gold  "and  try  to  cheat 
the  devil  by  joining  the  church."  After  having  carefully  read 
Scott  and  Dickens,  I  would  recommend  the  reader  to  read  the 
"  British  Essayists;  "  as  the  reading  of  them  will  cause  the  reader 
to  have  more  expanded  views,  prevent,  to  a  very  great  extent,  his 
mind  from  running  in  a  groove,  and  from  jumping  at  the  conclu- 
sion that  God,  in  His  divine  wisdom,  has  not  accorded  to  him,  the 
reader,  any  more  of  His  divine  inspiration  than  He  has  accorded 
to  the  balance  of  mankind. 

Such,  at  least,  are  a  few  of  the  impressions  that  the  reading  of 
the  "British  Essayists"  have  made  upon  my  mind,  and  I  trust 
will  make  upon  yours  also.  And  I  would  further  suggest  that, 
before  commencing  to  read  the  history  of  Rome,  or  that  of  any 
other  foreign  country,  you  not  only  read  the  history  of  your  own, 
but  also  make  yourself  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  funda- 
mental laws  upon  which  your  country  is  based,  as  it  is  a  duty 


—  9  — 

you  owe  to  yourself  and  to  each  and  every  one  of  your  country- 
men. 

I  will  not  presume  to  instruct  the  average  reader  in  what  books 
to  read,  but  merely  lay  before  him  what  a  few  of  the  most  emi- 
nent writers  have  said  upon  the  subject. 

Dr.  McCosh  says:  "  The  book  to  read  is  not  the  one  that  thinks 
for  you,  but  the  one  that  makes  you  think."  And  another  author 
which  I  cannot  now  recall  says:  "It  is  the  cream  of  a  writer's 
thoughts  that  you  want,  the  kernel  and  not  the  shell;  the  strong, 
pungent  essence  and  not  the  thin,  diluted  mixture.  You  should 
value  a  book  for  its  suggestiveness  even  more  than  for  the  infor- 
mation it  contains." 

Mr.  Ruskin  says  that:  ''  The  real  value  of  any  book,  to  a  par- 
ticular reader,  is  to  be  measured  by  its  serviceableness  to  that 
reader."  And  DeQuincey  says:  "There  is  a  literature  of  knowl- 
edge, and  a  literature  of  power,  and  a  knowledge  that  can  never 
be  transmuted  into  power  becomes  mere  intellectual  rubbish." 

The  choice  of  books  would  be  greatly  aided,  if  the  reader,  in 
taking  up  a  volume,  would  ask  himself  just  why  he  is  going  to 
read  it,  and  of  what  service  it  is  going  to  be  to  him.  This  ques- 
tion, if  sincerely  put,  and  truthfully  answered,  is  pretty  sure  to 
lead  him  to  the  great  books — or  at  least  to  the  books  that  are 
great  for  him.  Homer,  Plutarch,  Herodotus,  and  Plato;  Virgil, 
Livy,  and  Tacitus;  Dante,  Tasso,  and  Petrarch;  Cervantes; 
Thomas  a  Kempis;  Goethe  and  Schiller;  Chaucer,  Spencer, 
Shakespeare,  Milton,  Bacon,  Sir  Thomas  Brown,  Bunyan,  Addi- 
son, Gra}^,  Scott,  Wordsworth,  and  Hawthorne — he  who  reads 
these,  and  such  as  these,  is  not  in  serious  danger  of  spending  his 
time  amiss. 

But  not  even  such  a  list  as  this  is  to  be  received  as  a  necessity 
by  every  reader.  One  may  find  Cowper  more  profitable  than 
Wordsworth;  to  another,  the  reading  of  Bancroft  may  be  more 
advantageous  than  that  of  Herodotus;  while  a  third  may  gain 
more  immediate  and  lasting  good  from  great  historical  novels 
like  Eber's  "  Wavada,"  or  Kingsley's  "  Hj-patia,"  than  from  a  long 
and  patient  attempt  to  master  Grote's  "  History  of  Greece,"  or 
Gibbon's  "Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire."  Each  indi- 
vidual reader  must  try,  first  of  all,  what  is  the  best  for  himself. 

In  forming  this  decision  let  him  make  the  utmost  use  of  the 


—  lu  — 

best  guide,  not  forgetting  tliat  the  average  opinion  of  educated 
men  is  pretty  sure  to  be  a  correct  opinion;  but  never  let  him  put 
aside  his  own  honesty  and  individuahty.  He  must  choose  his 
books  as  he  chooses  his  friends,  because  of  their  integrity  and 
helpfuhiess,  and  because  of  the  pleasure  their  society  gives  him. 
"  Every  book  that  we  take  up  without  a  purpose,"  says  Mr.  Fred- 
erick Harrison,  "is  an  opportunity  lost  of  taking  up  a  book  with 
a  purpose."  Every  bit  of  stray  information  that  we  cram  into 
our  heads  without  any  sense  of  its  iftiportance,  is  for  the  most 
part  a  bit  of  the  most  useful  information  driven  out  of  our  heads 
and  choked  off  from  our  minds. 

It  is  so  certain  that  information,  that  is,  the  knowledge,  the 
stored  thoughts  and  observations  of  mankind,  are  now  grown  to 
proportions  so  utterly  incalculable  and  prodigious,  that  even  the 
learned,  whose  lives  are  given  to  study,  can  only  pick  up  soTiie 
crumbs  that  fall  from  the  table  of  truth. 

They  delve  and  tend  but  a  plot  in  that  vast  and  teeming  king- 
dom, whilst  those  whom  active  life  leaves  with  but  a  few  cramped 
hours  of  study  can  hardly  come  to  know  the  very  vastness  of  the 
field  before  them,  or  how  infinitesimally  is  the  corner  they  can 
traverse  at  the  best. 

We  know  all  is  not  of  equal  value.  We  know  that  books  differ 
in  value  as  much  as  diamonds  differ  from  the  sand  on  the  sea- 
shore, as  much  as  our  living  friend  differs  from  a  dead  rat.  We 
know  that  in  the  myriad-peopled  world  of  books  very  much  in  all 
kinds  is  trivial,  enervating,  inane,  even  noxious.  And  thus, 
where  we  have  infinite  opportunities  of  wasting  our  efforts  to  the 
end  of  satisfying  our  minds  without  enriching  them,  of  clogging 
the  spirit  without  satisfying  it,  there  I  cannot  but  think  the  very 
infinity  of  opportunities  is  robbing  us  of  the  actual  power  of  using 
them.  And  thus  I  come  often,  in  my  less  hopeful  moods,  to 
watch  the  remorseless  cataract  of  daily  literature  which  thunders 
over  the  remnants  of  the  past,  as  if  it  were  a  fresh  impediment  to 
the  men  of  our  day  in  the  way  of  systematic  knowledge  and  con- 
sistent powers  of  thought,  as  if  it  were  destined  one  day  to  over- 
whelm the  great  inheritance  of  mankind  in  prose  and  verse. 

I  am  not  presumptuous  enough  to  assert  that  the  large  part  of 
modern  literature  is  not  worth  reading  in  itself,  that  the  large 


—  11  — 

part  of  modern  literature  is  not  readable,  entertaining,  one  may 
say,  highly  instructive. 

Nor  do  I  pretend  that  the  verses  which  we  read  so  zealously  in 
place  of  Milton's  are  not  good  verses.  On  the  contrary,  I  think 
them  sweetlv  conceived,  as  musical  and  as  graceful  as  the  verse 
of  any  age  in  our  histor3^  I  say  it  emphatically,  a  great  deal  of 
our  modern  literature  is  such  that  it  is  exceedingly  difficult  to 
resist  it  and  undeniable  that  it  gives  us  real  information. 

It  seems  perhaps  unreasonable  to  many  to  assert  that  a  decent, 
readable  book  which  gives  us  actual  instruction  can  be  otherwise 
than  a  useful  companion  and  solid  gain. 

I  do  say  many  people  are  ready  to  cry  out  upon  me  as  an 
obstructionist  for  venturing  to  doubt  a  general  confidence  in  all 
literature,  simply  as  such.  But  the  question  which  weighs  upon 
me  with  such  crushing  force  is  this:  AMiat  are  the  books  in  our 
little  remnant  of  reading  time  it  is  most  vital  for  us  to  know  ? 

For  the  true  use  of  books  is  of  such  sacred  value  to  us  that  to 
be  simply  entertained  is  to  cease  to  be  taught,  elevated,  inspired 
by  books;  merely  to  gather  information  of  a  chance  kind  is  to 
close  the  mind  to  knowledge  of  the  urgent  kind. 

This  union  of  freedom  with  authority — of  a  choice  for  one's  self, 
and  a  willingness  to  believe  that  the  world  is  right  in  setting 
Shakespeare  above  Swinburne,  and  Homer  above  Tupper  is,  I 
believe,  the  true  and  the  only  guide  in  the  selection  of  books  to 
read.  In  the  long  run,  nothing  but  truth,  simplicity,  purity,  and 
a  lofty  purpose  approves  a  book  to  the  favor  of  the  ages;  and 
nothing  else  ought  to  approve  it  to  the  individual  reader. 

Thus  the  end  is  reached  and  the  choice  is  made,  not  by  taking 
a  book  because  a  "  course  of  reading  commands  you  to  do  so,  but 
because  you  come  to  see  for  yourself  the  wisdom  of  the  selection. 
The  pure  and  wholesome  heart  of  humanity — that  thing  which  we 
call  conscience — is  the  guide  of  readers  as  it  is  of  every  other  class 
of  works  in  life." 

Mr.  Harrison  in  another  place  says:  "I  have  no  intention  to 
moralize  or  to  indulge  in  a  homily  against  the  reading  of  what  is 
deliberately  evil.  There  is  not  so  much  need  for  this  now,  and  I 
am  not  discoursing  on  the  Avhole  duty  of  man.  I  take  that  part 
of  our  reading  which  is  by  itself,  no  doubt,  harmless,  entertaining, 
and  even  gently  instructive. 


"  But  of  this  enormous  mass  of  literature  how  much  deserves  to 
be  chosen  out,  to  be  preferred  to  all  the  great  books  of  the  world, 
to  be  set  apart  for  those  precious  hours  which  are  all  that  the 
most  of  us  can  give  to  solid  reading?  The  vast  proportion  of 
books,  are  books  that  we  should  never  be  able  to  read. 

"A  serious  percentage  of  books  are  not  worth  reading  at  all. 
The  really  vital  books  we  also  know  to  be  a  very  trifling  portion 
of  the  whole.  And  yet  we  act  as  if  every  book  Avere  as  good  as 
any  other,  as  if  it  were  merely  a  question  of  order  which  we  take 
up  first,  as  if  any  book  were  good  enough  for  us,  and  as  if  all 
were  alike  honorable,  precious,  and  satisfying. 

"  Alas!  books  can  not  be  more  than  the  men  who  write  them, 
and  as  a  large  proportion  of  the  human  race  now  write  books, 
with  motives  and  objects  as  various  as  human  activity,  books,  as 
books  are  entitled,  a  priori,  until  their  value  is  proved  to  the 
same  attention  and  respect  as  houses,  steam  engines,  pictures, 
fiddles,  bonnets,  and  other  thoughtful  or  ornamental  products  of 
human  industry." 

"  The  Bible,"  Emerson  says,  "  has  been  the  literature  as  well 
as  the  religion  of  all  large  portions  of  Europe — Havis  was  the 
eminent  genius  of  the  Persians,  Confucius  of  the  Chinese,  Cer- 
vantes of  the  Spaniards.  With  this  pilot  of  genius,  let  the 
student  read  one,  or  let  him  read  many,  he  will  read  advantage- 
ously." 


POETRY. 

fRICHARDSON.l 

Some  people  read  a  great  deal  of  poetry  with  constant  zest  and 
unfailing  advantage;  others,  though  they  may  be  "  great  readers  " 
of  other  classes  of  literature,  find  little  pleasure  or  profit  in  poetry. 
Is  it  a  duty  to  read  poetry  ?  Should  those  who  seem  to  have  no 
natural  taste  for  it,  endeavor  to  cultivate  a  taste:  or  should  they 
rest  content  with  the  conclusion  that  some  minds  have  no  capa- 
city for  its  enjoyment? 

It  may  not  be  a  downright  duty  to  like  poetry,  or  to  try  to  like 
it;  but  certainly  it  is  a  misfortune  that  so  large  and  lovely  a  divi- 
sion of  the  world's  literature  should  be  lost  to  any  reader.     The 


—  13  — 

absence  of  a  poetic  taste  is  a  sad  indication  of  a  lack  of  the  imag- 
inative faculty,  and  without  imagination  what  is  life. 

The  study  and  reading  of  poetry,  says  President  Porter,  "  exer- 
cises and  cultivates  the  imagination,  and  in  this  way  imparts  intel- 
lectual power.  It  is  impossible  to  read  the  products  of  any  poet's 
imagination  without  using  our  own.  To  read  what  he  creates  is 
to  recreate  in  our  own  minds  the  images  and  pictures  which  first 
conceived  and  then  expressed  in  language." 

If  a  reader  finds  that  the  ideal  has  little  or  no  place  in  his  intel- 
lectual life,  or  in  his  daily  process  of  thought  and  feeling,  then 
he  should  consider,  with  all  soberness,  the  fact  that  a  God-giving 
power  is  slipping  away  from  him — a  power  without  which  his  best 
faculties  must  become  atrophied:  without  which  he  loses  the 
greater  half  of  the  enjoyment  of  life,  day  by  day;  without  which, 
in  very  truth,  he  cannot  see  all  the  glory  of  the  open  door  of  the 
Kingdom  of  Heaven. 

Children  are  poets;  they  see  fairy -land  in  a  poor,  broken  set  of 
toy  crockery,  or  in  a  ragged  company  of  brolien-nosed  dolls.  Their 
powers  of  imagination  ought  never  to  be  lost  in  the  humdrum 
affairs  of  a  work-a-day  world;  their  habit  of  finding  the  real  in 
the  ideal  is  one  which  cannot  be  laid  aside  without  great  detri- 
ment to  the  indi^'idual  life  and  character. 

There  may  then  be  persons  who  "have  no  capacity  for  poetry," 
and  who  cannot  cultivate  a  taste  for  it;  but  this  inabilit3^  if  real, 
is  to  be  mourned  as  a  mental  blindness  and  deafness,  shutting  out 
whole  worlds  from  sight  and  hearing.  There  is,  of  course,  a  great 
deal  of  imaginative  literature  which  is  not  poetry,  in  the  technical 
sense;  but  if  one  can  read  Hawthorne  or  Richter  with  pleasure, 
he  is  quite  sure  to  find  no  stumbling-block  in  Schiller's  "  Lay  of 
the  Bell,"  or  Drake's  '•  Culprit  Fay." 

It  is  the  poetic  spirit  that  we  should  recognize  and  take  to  our 
hearts,  whatever  be  the  outward  form  in  which  it  may  be  en- 
shrined. 

What  is  the  poetic  spirit?    Many  have  been  the  attempts  to 

define  it;  but,  after  all,  we  can  only  say,  in  the  words   Shelley 

wrote  in  his  "Hymn  to  the  Spirit  of  Nauve,"  "all  feel,  yet  see 

thee  never."     Or  again,  is  not  poetry  to  be  described,  as  nearly  as 

we  may  describe  it,  in  two  more  lines  from  the  same  poem:    . 

Lamp  of  earth  where'er  thou  movest. 
Its  dim  shapes  are  clad  with  brightness. 


—  14  — 

In  Professor  W.  P.  Atkinson's  lecture  on  reading,  is  a  passage 
concerning  poetry,  which  is  hoth  imaginative  and  practical.  "  I 
have  no  thought,"  says  he,  "of  attempting  here  a  definition  of 
poetry,  though  I  should  like  to  come  and  give  you  a  lecture  on  the 
art  of  reading  it." 

"NMiether  we  call  it,  with  Aristotle,  imitation;  whether  we  say 
more  worthily,  with  Bacon,  that  it  was  even  thought  to  have  some 
participation  of  divineness,  because  it  doth  raise  and  erect  the 
mind  by  submitting  the  shows  of  things  to  the  desires  of  the 
mind ;  whereas  reason  doth  buckle  and  bow  the  mind  unto  the 
nature  of  things;  whether  in  modern  times  we  define  it,  with 
Shelley,  as  "  the  best  and  happiest  thoughts  of  the  best  and  hap- 
piest minds;"  or  say,  with  Matthew  Arnold,  that  "  poetrj^is  simply 
the  most  beautiful,  impressive,  and  widely  effective  mode  of  say- 
ing things;"  and  again,  that  "  it  is  to  the  poetical  literature  of  an 
age  that  we  must  in  general  look  for  the  most  perfect  and  most 
adequate  interpretation  of  that  age;"  or,  whether  we  say,  with  the 
greatest  poet  of  the  last  generation,  that  "  poetry  is  the  breath 
and  finer  spirit  of  all  knowledge,  the  impassioned  expression 
which  is  in  the  countenance  of  all  science" — all  I  am  concerned 
to  say  here  is  that  poetry  is  that  branch  of  the  literature  of  power 
preeminently  worthy  of  study,  and  that  without  study  we  shall 
know  but  little  about  it.  We  need  not  think,  then,  that  the  read- 
ing of  poetry  is  a  matter  of  whim  or  accident  to  be  undertaken 
without  thought  or  study.  President  Porter  says  that  a  '•  taste 
for  poetry,  especially  that  of  the  higher  order,  is  to  a  great  extent 
the  product  of  special  culture."  The  foundation  for  this  culture 
lies  in  the  individual  mind;  for  its  development  he  must  seek  his 
material  from  the  treasures  around  him,  and  must  work  out  his 
methods  of  utilizing  that  material  with  the  same  care,  or  even 
greater,  which  he  applies  to  other  departments  of  intellectual 
exercise. 

Let  him,  if  he  finds  his  taste  in  need  of  cultivation,  begin  with 
such  poems  as  he  likes;  read  them  more  than  once;  learn  their 
teachings;  ai)prehend  their  inner  spirit  and  purpose.  Whatever 
the  ]:»eginning,  it  is  sure  to  lead  to  something  better,  if  the  reader 
will  but  resolutely  determine  to  know  what  the  writer  meant  to 
say;  to  see  the  picture  that  he  portrayed;  and  to  share  his  enthu- 
siasm and  warmth  of  feeling.     Mr.  G.  F.  Goshen,  a  leading  En- 


—  15  — 

glish  banker  and  political  economist,  declares  that  the  cultivation 
of  the  imagination  is  essential  to  the  highest  success  in  politics, 
in  learning,  and  in  the  commercial  business  of  life.  No  one  is 
too  dull,  too  prosaic,  or  too  much  absorbed  in  the  routine  of 
''practical  life"  to  be  absolved  from  the  care  of  his  imaginative 
powers,  and  no  one  is  likely  to  find  that  this  care  will  not  repay 
him,  even  in  a  practical  sense.  He  who  thinks  wisely,  he  who 
perceives  quickly  that  which  others  do  not  see  at  all,  is  better 
equipped  for  any  work  than  one  whose  mind  works  slowly  and 
feebly,  and  whose  apprehensions  have  grown  rusty  from  disease. 
Poetry  is  not  for  the  few,  but  for  the  many,  for  all.  The  world's 
great  poems,  absolutely  without  exception,  have  been  poems  whose 
meaning  has  been  perfectly  clear  and  whose  language  has  been 
simple — poems  which  have  addressed  themselves  to  the  plain  and 
common  sense  of  the  ages. 

Obscurity  and  whimsicality  may  belong  to  the  Brownings  of 
literature,  to  the  star-gazing  Transcendentalists  of  1840.  or  to  the 
posturing  impressionists  of  to-day,  but  Homer,  and  Virgil,  and 
Dante,  and  Chaucer,  and  Shakespeare  need  no  mystical  com- 
mentary to  explain  their  meaning;  like  Mark  Antony,  they  "only 
speak  right  on." 

If  a  poem  is  obscure,  you  may  know  by  that  mark  alone  that 
it  is  a  second-rate  or  tenth-rate  affair,  and  that  it  is  not  worth 
3^our  while  to  vex  your  brain  over  it  at  all.  If  a  poet  has  not 
made  himself  clear,  it  is  his  fault  and  not  yours,  if  you  are  a 
person  of  average  intellectual  capacity.  Feel  not  abashed  if  you 
do  not  comprehend  the  ''orphil"or  the  "intense;"  most  likely 
the  author  did  not  comprehend  it  himself. 

Sunlight,  air,  water — these  are  not  for  the  few;  nor  is  poetry 
to  be  cooped  and  confined  any  more  than  these. 

Principal  Sharp  thus  speaks  of  this  inherent  quality  of  the 
best  poetry — a  qualitj^  which  all  men  may  apprehend  if  they  will: 
"The  pure  style  is  that  which,  whether  it  describes  a  scene,  a 
character,  or  a  sentiment,  lays  hold  of  its  inner  meaning,  not  its 
surface;  the  type  which  the  thing  embodies,  not  the  accidents; 
the  core  or  heart  of  it,  not  the  accessories.  *  *  *  Descriptions 
of  this  kind,  while  they  convey  typical  conceptions,  yet  retain 
perfect  indi^dduality.  They  are  done  by  a  few  strokes,  in  the 
fewest  possible  words;  but  each  stroke  tells,  each  word  goes  home. 


—  IG  — 

Of  this  kind  is  the  poetry  of  the  psalms  and  of  the  Hebrew 
prophets.  It  is  seen  in  the  brief  impressive  way  in  which  Dante 
presents  the  heroes  or  heroines  of  his  nether  world,  as  compared 
with  Virgil's  more  elaborate  pictures.  In  all  of  Wordsworth  that 
has  really  impressed  the  world,  this  will  be  found  to  be  the  chief 
characteristic.  It  is  seen  especially  in  his  finest  13'rics  and  his 
most  impressive  sonnets.  Take  only  three  poems  that  stand 
together  in  his  Avorks — "Glen  Almain,"  "  Stepping  Westward,"  the 
"  Solitary  Reaper  " — in  each  you  have  a  scene  and  its  sentiment 
brought  home  with  the  minimum  of  words,  the  maximum  of 
power.  It  is  distinctive  of  the  pure  style  that  it  relies  not  on  side 
effect,  but  on  the  total  impression,  that  it  produces  a  unity  in 
which  all  the  parts  are  subordinated  to  one  paramount  aim.  The 
imagery  is  appropriate,  never  excessive.  You  are  not  distracted 
by  glaring  single  lines  or  too  splendid  images.  There  is  one  tone, 
and  that  all  pervading,  reducing  all  the  materials,  however 
diverse,  into  harmony  with  the  one  total  result  designed. 

"  This  style,  in  its  perfection,  is  not  to  be  obtained  by  any  rules 
of  art.  The  secret  of  it  lies  further  in  than  rules  of  art  can  reach, 
even  in  this:  that  the  writer  sees  his  object,  and  this  only;  feels 
the  sentiment  of  it,  and  this  only;  is  so  absorbed  in  it,  lost  in  it, 
that  he  altogether  forgets  himself  and  his  style,  and  cares  only 
in  fewest,  most  vital  words,  to  convey  to  others  the  "vision  his  own 
soul  sees.         *  ******** 

"  The  ornate  style  of  poetrj^  is  altogether  different  from  this.  No 
doubt  the  multitude  of  uneducated  and  half  educated  readers 
which  every  day  increases,  loves  a  highly  ornamented,  not  to  say 
a  meretricious  style,  both  in  literature  and  in  the  arts;  and  if 
these  demand  it,  writers  and  artists  will  be  found  to  furnish  it. 
There  remains,  therefore,  to  the  most  educated,  the  task  of  counter- 
working this  evil.  With  them  it  lies  to  elevate  the  thought  and 
to  purify  the  taste  of  less  cultivated  readers,  and  so  to  remedy 
one  of  the  evils  incident  to  democracy.  To  high  thinking,  and 
noble  li^ang,  the  pure  style  is  natural.  But  these  things  are 
severe,  require  moral  bracing,  minds  not  luxurious  but  which  can 
endure  hardness.  Softness,  self  pleasing  and  moral  limpness, 
find  their  congenial  element  in  excess  of  highly-colored  ornamen- 
tation.    On  the  whole,  when  once  a  man  is  master  of  himself  and 


—  17  — 

of  his  materials,  the  best  rule  that  can  be  given  him  is  to  forget 
style  altogether,  and  to  think  only  of  the  reality  to  be  expressed. 

'■  The  more  the  mind  is  intent  on  the  realit}',  the  simpler,  truer, 
more  telling  the  style  will  be.  The  advice  which  the  great 
preacher  gives  for  conduct  holds  not  less  for  all  kinds  of  writing. 
Aim  at  things,  and  your  words  will  be  right  without  aiming. 
Guard  against  love  of  display,  love  of  singularity,  love  of  seeming 
original.  Aim  at  meaning  what  you  say,  and  saying  what  you 
mean. 

"  When  a  man  is  full  of  his  subject  and  has  matured  his  powers 
of  expression,  sets  himself  to  speak  thus  simply  and  sincerely, 
whatever  there  is  in  him  of  strength  or  sweetness,  of  dignity  or 
grace,  of  humor  or  pathos,  will  find  its  way  out  naturally  into  his 
language.  That  language  will  be  true  to  his  thoughts,  true  to  the 
man  himself." 

How  different  is  such  poetical  language  from  the  poetry  of  the 
obscure,  or  the  mock  sentimental,  or  the  positively  base!  What 
the  "  Saturday  Review  "  has  said  of  Byron  is  true  of  many  another 
poet:  "  Even  Byron's  best  passages  will  not  stand  critical  exam- 
ination. They  excite  rather  than  transport,  and  when  the  reader 
examines  seriously  what  he  has  felt,  the  impression  of  a  vague, 
contagious  excitement  is  all  that  he  retains.  In  reading  Byron, 
the  reader  dimly  feels  that  he  is  in  the  presence  of  a  very  eloquent 
person,  who  is,  or  would  like  to  be  thought,  in  a  state  of  excite- 
ment about  something,  and  that  it  is  his  duty  to  become  excited 
too."  True  poetry  has  a  far  nobler  mission  than  to  puzzle,  or  to 
amuse,  or  to  excite;  it  is  the  voice  of  all  that  is  best  in  humanity, 
speaking  from  man  to  man.  Not  all  of  us  can  thus  speak,  but  we 
can  all  hear,  and  incorporate  what  we  hear  in  our  best  and  truest 
life,  day  by  day. 


—  18  — 


THOUGHTS  FOR  A  YOUNG  MAN. 

[HORACE   MANN.] 

The  pleasure  of  Hterature  may  rightfully  accept  a  portion  of  the 
time  not  demanded  by  business  or  by  health.  The  pursuits  of 
science  are  even  more  valuable  and  ennobling  than  the  study  of 
literature.  Literature  is  mainly  conversant  with  the  work  of  man, 
while  science  deals  with  the  works  of  God;  and  the  difference  in 
the  subject-matter  of  the  two  indicates  the  difference  in  their  rel- 
ative value,  and  in  the  power  and  happiness  they  can  respectively 
bestow.  A  great  portion  of  our  literature  is  addressed  to  marvel- 
ousness,  ideahty,  and  those  subordinate  faculties  that  are  brought 
into  play  by  narrative  adventure,  and  scenic  representation. 

By  far  the  larger  part  of  all  histories,  a  great  portion  of  epic 
poetry,  and  almost  all  martial  poetry  are  addressed  to  the  loutish 
propensities  of  combativeness  and  destructiveness.  But  physical 
science  addresses  itself  to  the  noble  faculty  of  causality  and  the 
kindred  members  of  its  groups,  including  the  mathematical  pow- 
ers; and  ethical  science  addresses  itself  both  to  causality  and  to 
conscientiousness,  and  seeks  also  the  sacred  sanctions  of  venera- 
tion for  whatever  it  teaches. 

A  vast  proportion  of  our  literature  consists  of  what  had  been 
written  before  the  truths  of  modern  science  were  discovered; 
before  the  idea  that  there  is  an  order  of  nature,  and  a  law  of  cause 
and  effect,  in  the  spiritual  as  well  as  in  the  natural  world,  had 
been  received  into  the  mind,  and  had  modified  its  action;  and 
nothing  can  be  more  different  than  what  the  same  genius  would 
write  before  being  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  science,  and  after  being 
so  imbued. 

All  science  may  be  invested  with  the  charms  of  literature,  but 
in  such  cases  it  does  not  cease  to  be  science;  it  only  becomes 
science  beautified. 

Hence  the  poet  or  the  moralist  may  he  scientific  'men,  though 
they  rarely  have  been. 

Before  the  time  of  Lord  Bacon,  men  invented  laws  for  nature, 
instead  of  inquiring  of  nature  by  what  laws  she  wrought.  Since 
his  time,  men  have  condescended  to  interrogate  nature  instead  of 
dictating  to  her;  and  already  we  have  a  physical  world  as  differ- 


—  19  — 

ent  from  that  known  before  he  wrote,  as  we  can  imagine  any  two 
plants  to  be  from  each  other. 

A  vast  proportion  of  the  existing  literature  has  as  little  relation 
to  metaphysical  truth,  as  the  speculations  of  the  schoolmen,  before 
the  time  of  Bacon,  had  to  physical  laws. 

It  is  not  more  true  that  Aristotle  and  his  followers  invented  laws 
for  nature  which  she  never  owned,  and  explained  her  phenomena 
on  principles  that  never  existed,  than  it  is  that  most  of  those  works, 
which  we  call  works  of  the  imagination,  assume  the  existence  of 
spiritual  laws,  such  spiritual  laws  as  the  spirit  of  man  never  knew, 
and  therefore  produce  results  of  action  and  character  such  as  all 
experience  repudiates.  Hence  it  is,  that  I  would  commend  sci- 
ence more  than  literature  as  an  improver  of  the  mind. 

Such  a  state  of  things  needs  not  to  be,  and  probably  ere  long 
will  cease  to  be.  Gall,  Spurzheim,  and  Combe,  have  done  much 
for  ph3^sics,  or  the  laws  of  matter.  Already  their  labors  are 
entirely  appreciated;  they  are  producing  great  improvements  and 
ameliorations  in  penal  jurisprudence  and  prison  discipline,  in  the 
treatment  of  the  insane,  in  ethical  philosophy,  and  in  education, 
which  lies  at  the  bottom  of  all  subjects,  which,  as  it  seems  to 
me,  can  never  be  properly  understood  but  in  the  light  of  their 
science. 


A  WORD  TO  THE  YOUNGER  INMATES  OF  THE  PRISON. 

[editor.] 

As  soon  as  you  have  learned  to  read  a  paragraph  in  a  news- 
paper, without  stopping  to  spell  every  word  contained  in  it,  do  not 
jump  at  the  conclusion  that  you  will  be  taken  for  a  philosopher 
by  propounding  questions  which  you  have  accidentally  stumbled 
upon  in  glancing  over  the  pages  of  Voltaire,  Volney,  Hume, 
Thomas  Paine,  or  any  other  infidel  writer.  Because  if  you  do 
you  will  very  likely  be  forced  into  a  position  that  will  cause  3''0U 
to  expose  the  extent  of  your  ignorance,  to  say  nothing  of  your  con- 
summate impudence,  in  presuming  to  propound  questions  that 
have  taxed  the  greatest  minds  that  the  world  has  ever  seen. 

Hume,  the  historian,  taxed  his  mind  for  seven  years  with  the 
proposition,  "Whether  mind  created  matter,  or  whether  matter 


—  20  — 

and  mind  were  coexistent,"  and  then  at  the  expiration  of  the 
seven  years  went  crazy.  So  you  see  how  idle,  and  worse  than 
idle,  it  would  be  for  an  uncultivated  mind  like  your  own  to  waste 
your  time  in  propounding,  parrot-like,  the  few  "  smart"  questions 
which  a  great  mind  like  that  of  Hume  failed  to  solve. 


THE  ART  OF  SKIPPING. 

[RICHARDSON.] 

It  is  a  fortunate  thing  that  one  of  the  most  hackneyed  quota- 
tions concerning  books  and  reading  should  also  be  one  of  the 
most  sensible  ones — Lord  Bacon's  saying,  that  "  some  books  are 
to  be  tasted,  others  to  be  swallowed,  and  some  few  to  be  chewed 
and  digested;  that  is,  some  books  are  to  be  read  only  in  part, 
others  to  be  read,  but  not  curiously,  and  some  few  to  be  read 
wholly,  and  with  diligence  and  attention." 

The  following  of  this  piece  of  advice  has  done  a  great  deal  of 
good,  and  no  harm  is  likely  to  come  from  its  wise  observance. 
Some  people  profess  to  believe  that  a  book  that  is  worth  reading 
at  all  is  worth  reading  straight  through;  a  piece  of  foolishness 
that  would  be  paralleled  by  an  insistance  upon  eating  a  tableful 
every  time  one  sits  down  to  a  meal.  A  person  who  makes  up  his 
mind  to  read  all  of  a  book  or  none  must  be  fully  convinced  of  the 
solemn  truth  of  the  saying  that  "  a  book's  a  book,  although  there 
is  nothing  in  't."  Against  such  lack  of  wisdom  the  sturdy  com- 
mon sense  of  Lord  Bacon's  remark  may  be  put.  The  reader  need 
but  rest  assured  of  its  unquestionable  truth  and  spend  his  time 
in  trying  to  discover  what  books  are  to  be  tasted,  what  swallowed. 
and  what  digested,  rather  than  vex  his  soul  in  questioning  whether 
the  general  advice  is  sound  or  not. 

A  book  that  is  worth  reading  all  through  is  pretty  sure  to  make 
its  worth  known.  There  is  something  in  the  literary  conscience 
which  tells  a  reader  whether  he  is  wasting  his  time  or  not.  An 
hour,  a  minute,  may  be  sufficient  opportunity  for  forming  a  de- 
cision concerning  the  Avorth  or  worthlessness  of  the  book. 

If  it  is  utterly  bad  and  valueless  then  skip  the  whole  of  it  as 
soon  as  you  have  made  the  discovery.     If  a  part  is  good  and  a 


—  21  — 

part  bad,  accept  the  one  and  reject  the  other.  If  you  are  in  doubt, 
take  warning  at  the  first  intimation  that  you  are  misspending 
your  opportunity  and  frittering  away  your  time  over  an  unprofit- 
able book.  Reading  that  is  of  questionable  value  is  not  hard  to 
find  out;  it  bears  its  notes  and  marks  in  unmistakable  plainness, 
and  it  puts  forth,  all  unwittingly,  danger  signals,  of  which  the 
reader  should  take  heed. 

The  art  of  skipping  is,  in  a  word,  the  art  of  noting  and  shun- 
ning that  which  is  bad,  or  frivolous,  or  misleading,  or  unsuitable 
for  one's  individual  needs.  If  you  are  convinced  that  the  book 
or  the  chapter  is  bad,  3'ou  cannot  drop  it  too  quickly.  If  it  is 
simply  idle  and  foolish,  put  it  away  on  that  account,  unless  you 
are  properly  seeking  amusement  from  idleness  and  frivolity.  If 
it  is  deceitful  and  disingenuous,  your  task  is  not  so  easy;  but  your 
conscience  will  give  you  warning,  and  the  sharp  examination 
which  should  follow  will  tell  you  that  you  are  in  poor  literary 
company.  But  there  are  a  great  many  books  which  are  good  in 
themselves,  and  yet  are  not  good  at  all  times  or  for  all  readers. 
No  book,  indeed,  is  of  universal  value  and  appropriateness.  The 
individual  must  always  dare  to  remember  that  he  has  his  own 
legitimate  tastes  and  wants,  and  that  it  is  not  only  proper  to  follow 
them,  but  highly  improper  to  permit  them  to  be  overruled  by  the 
tastes  and  wants  of  others.  It  is  right  for  one  to  neglect  entirely, 
or  to  skip  through,  pages  which  another  should  study  again  and 
again. 

Let  each  reader  ask  himself:  Why  am  I  reading  this?  what 
service  will  it  be  to  me?  am  I  neglecting  something  else  that 
would  be  more  profitable  ?  Hence,  as  in  every  other  question  in- 
volved in  the  choice  of  books,  the  golden  key  to  knowledge,  a  key 
that  will  only  fit  its  own  proper  doors,  is  pinyose.  Thus  the  reader 
is  the  pupil,  and  the  companion,  and  the  fellow-worker  of  the 
author,  not  his  slave. 

"  It  is  a  wise  book  that  is  good  from  title  page  to  the  end," 
says  A.  Bronson  Alcott.  Such  a  book  should  be  read  through; 
but  the  books  that  are  wise  in  spots  should  be  read  in  spots. 

Again,  Mr.  Alcott  says:  ''  I  value  books  for  their  suggestiveness 
even  more  than  for  the  information  they  contain;  volumes  that 
may  be  taken  in  hand  and  laid  aside,  read  at  odd  moments,  con- 
taining sentences  that  take  possession  of  my  thought  and  prompt 


—  22  — 

to  the  following  them  into  their  wider  relations  with  life  and 
things."  This  suggestiveness  of  books  read  at  odd  moments  is 
one  of  the  great  advantages  of  judicious  skipping.  From  this 
habit  comes,  often,  a  riper  and  wholesomer  harvest  than  would 
spring  from  the  most  painstaking  devotion  to  regulated  and  rou- 
tine reading  and  study. 

One  page,  one  sentence,  thus  planted  in  the  fertile  soil  of  a 
receptive  mind,  is  better  than  a  whole  library  read  from  a  mere 
sense  of  duty,  and  without  reference  to  one's  true  welfare,  as  indi- 
cated by  his  nature  and  his  needs.  No  one  thus  wisely  choosing 
what  he  may  best  read,  need  be  in  any  fear  that  he  is  a  superfi- 
cial reader.  "  Did  you  ever  happen  to  see,"  asks  a  writer  whose 
name  I  have  unfortunately  lost,  "  did  you  ever  happen  to  see,  in 
shrewd,  old  hard-headed  Bishop  Whately's  annotations  on  Lord 
Bacon's  essays,  a  good  passage  about  what  is  and  what  is  not 
superficiality  ?  It  is  in  the  sentence  in  Bacon's  essays,  on  studies, 
'  Crafty  men  contemn  studies.'  This  '  contempt,' says  the  Bishop, 
whether  of  crafty  men  or  narrow-minded  men,  finds  its  expression 
in  the    word  '  smattering,'  and  the   couplet  is  become  almost  a 

proverb : 

A  little  learning  is  a  dangerous  thing; 
Drink  deep,  or  taste  not  the  Pierian  spring." 

But  the  poet's  remedies  for  the  dangers  of  a  little  learning  are 
both  of  them  impossible.  No  one  can  drink  deep  enough  to  be  in 
truth  anything  more  than  superficial;  and  every  human  being 
that  is  not  a  downright  idiot  must  taste. 

And  the  Bishop,  in  his  downright  way,  goes  on  to  give  practical 
illustrations  of  the  usefulness  of  a  little  knowledge,  and  proceeds: 
"  What,  then,  is  the  smattering,  the  imperfect  and  superficial 
knowledge  that  deserve  contempt? 

"A  slight  and  superficial  knowledge  is  justly  condemned  when 
it  is  put  in  the  place  of  more  full  and  exact  knowledge. 

"  Such  an  acquaintance  with  chemistry  and  anatomy,  for  in- 
stance, as  would  be  creditable  and  not  useless  to  a  lawyer,  would 
be  contemptible  for  a  physician;  and  such  acquaintance  with  law 
as  would  be  desirable  for  him,  would  be  a  most  discreditable  smat- 
tering for  a  lawyer." 

Mr.  Hamerton  has  some  wise  words  on  this  subject:  "It  be- 
comes a  necessary  part,"  says  he,  "of  the  art  of  intellectual  living, 


—  23  — 

so  to  order  our  work  as  to  shield  ourselves  if  possible,  at  least 
during  a  certain  portion  of  our  time,  from  the  evil  consequences 
of  hurry.  The  whole  secret  lies  in  a  sinele  word — selection. 
*  *  *  The  art  is  to  select  the  reading  which  will  be  most 
useful  to  our  purpose,  and,  in  writing,  to  select  the  words  which 
will  express  our  meaning  with  the  greatest  clearness  in  a  little 
space. 

"The  art  of  reading  is  to  skip  judiciously.  Whole  libraries 
may  be  skipped  in  these  days,  when  we  have  the  results  of  them 
in  our  modern  culture  without  going  over  the  ground  again.  And 
even  the  books  we  decide  to  read  there  are  almost  always  large 
portions  which  do  not  concern  us,  and  which  we  are  sure  to  forget 
the  day  after  we  have  read  them." 

The  art  is  to  skip  all  that  does  not  concern  us,  whilst  missing 
nothing  that  we  really  need.  No  external  guidance  can  teach  us 
this;  for  nobody  but  ourselves  can  guess  what  the  needs  of  our 
intellects  may  be. 

But  let  us  select  with  decisive  firmness,  independently  of  other 
people's  ad\dce,  independently  of  the  authority  of  custom.  Of 
course  it  follows  that  to  some  extent  we  can  let  others  do  the  work 
of  selecting  for  us,  subject  to  correction  whenever  necessary.  "  In 
comparing  the  number  of  good  books  with  the  shortness  of  life, 
many  might  well  be  read  by  proxy,  if  we  had  good  proxies,"  says 
Emerson. 

Sensible  literary  guides  must  be  followed  to  a  large  extent, 
whether  in  their  recommendation  of  one  book  as  against  another, 
or  of  certain  poems  or  prose  extracts  in  comparison  with  others. 

Books  of  selection,  it  is  true,  sometimes  omit  things  we  would 
have  greatly  liked ;  but  who  will  pretend  to  say  that  he  always 
finds  everything  that  would  have  pleased  or  profited  him,  even 
when  he  makes  his  own  choice? 

As  no  worker  in  any  field  of  labor  can,  in  this  social  world,  dis- 
pense with  the  help  of  others,  so  it  is  especially  necessary  for 
readers  to  follow  the  guidance  of  pioneers  and  wise  critics,  and 
to  make  use  of  the  selections  these  critics  have  made,  as  well  as 
their  indication  of  whole  books.  And  sometimes,  as  Emerson's 
remark  shows  us,  we  may  not  only  delegate  to  others  the  work  of 
choice  and  selection,  but  also  that  of  reading  itself. 


24  — 


REMEMBERING   WHAT   ONE   READS. 

[RICHARDSON.] 

Scarcely  anjiihing  more  annoys  readers  than  the  fact  that  they 
forget  so  much  of  what  they  have  read. 

In  history,  dates  and  names  pass  from  mind ;  poems  that  they 
once  knew  by  heart  fade  awa}'  from  recollection;  and  the  charac- 
ters, the  plots,  or  perhaps  the  very  titles  of  stories  which  were  once 
familiar,  depart  as  utterly  as  though  they  had  never  been  known 
at  all. 

In  connection  with  this  question  of  the  retention  or  nonreten- 
tion  of  what  one  reads,  it  should  never  be  forgotten  that  God  has 
evidently  arranged  the  powers  of  the  human  mind  in  such  a  way 
that  we  must  forget  a  great  deal,  however  carefully  we  strive  to 
remember  all  we  can.  A  large  part  of  our  knowledge,  too,  is  to 
be  considered  as  nutriment,  or  as  intelligent  exercise;  and  we 
should  no  more  lament  over  its  loss  than  because  we  do  not  re- 
member what  we  had  for  breakfast  a  year  ago  to-day,  or  the  exact 
length  of  the  invigorating  walk  we  took  on  that  breezy  morning, 
week  before  last. 

A  book  is  by  no  means  read  without  profit,  if  a  part,  or  even  the 
whole  of  it,  be  forgotten  beyond  recall.  And  it  is  a  consolation  to 
reflect  that  the  very  best  use  to  which  some  of  our  past  reading 
can  be  put,  is  to  be  forgotten  as  speedily  as  possible.  If  we  have 
forgotten  some  things  that  were  good  and  pleasant,  we  have  luck- 
ily blotted  from  our  minds  not  a  little  that  was  noxious  and  unat- 
tractive. 

But  a  "  poor  memor}'^  "  is  a  thing  that  can  be  materially  strength- 
ened; and  after  all  reservations  have  been  made,  we  should  not 
forget  the  duty  of  remembering  all  we  really  ought  to  remember, 
so  far  as  the  natural  powers  of  our  minds  will  permit.  The  first 
and  the  last  aid  to  memory  is  a  habit  of  pa^dng  strict  attention  to 
what  we  read.  "  Special  efforts  should  be  made  to  retain  what  is 
gathered  from  reading,"  says  President  Porter,  "  if  any  such  eflforts 
are  required.  Some  persons  read  with  an  interest  so  wakeful  and 
responsive,  and  an  attention  so  fixed  and  energetic,  as  to  need  no 
appliance  and  no  efforts  in  order  to  retain  what  they  read.  They 
look  upon  a  page  and  it  is  imprinted  upon  the  memory.     *     *     * 


—  25  — 

"  But  there  are  others  who  read  only  to  lose  and  to  forget. 

"  Facts  and  truths,  words  and  thoughts,  are  alike  evanescent. 

"  We  shall  not  attempt  to  explain  here  the  nature  of  these  differ- 
ences. We  are  concerned  only  to  devise  the  remedy;  we  insist 
that  those  who  labor  under  these  difficulties  should  use  special 
appliances  to  avoid  or  overcome  them. 

"  But  that  upon  which  we  insist  most  of  all,  is  that  what  we  read 
we  should  seek  to  make  our  own,  only  in  the  manner  and  after  the 
measure  of  which  we  are  capable." 

President  Porter  then  goes  on  to  advise  each  reader  to  follow  his 
natural  bent  and  aptitudes;  not  to  worry  if  he  has  not  a  good  ver- 
bal memory,  over  his  inability  to  remember  choice  phrases  or 
striking  stanzas,  nor  to  vex  his  soul  over  his  failure  to  retain 
names  and  dates.  "  When  a  man  reads,"  he  says,  "  he  should  put 
himself  into  the  most  intimate  intercourse  with  his  author,  so  that 
all  his  energies  of  apprehension,  judgment,  and  feeling  may  be 
occupied  with,  and  aroused  by,  what  his  author  furnishes,  what- 
ever it  may  be.  If  repetition  or  review  will  aid  him  in  this,  as  it 
often  will,  let  him  not  disdain  or  neglect  frequent  re\aews.  If  the 
use  of  the  pen  in  brief  or  full  notes,  in  catch  words  or  symbols,  will 
aid  him,  let  him  not  shrink  from  the  drudgery  of  the  pen  and  the 
common-place  book." 

Philip  Gilbert  Hamerton  has  expressed  an  opinion  that  what 
is  called  a  "  defective  memory,"  is  by  no  means  an  unmixed  e\al. 

He  says  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  "selecting  memory, 
which  is  not  only  useful  for  what  it  retains,  but  for  what  it 
rejects. 

'■  "N^'hat  really  interestsxis,  we  can  usually  retain  without  recourse 
to  any  elaborate  system  of  memories. 

"That  which  does  not  properly  interest  us  we  cannot  thus 
retain.     Bad  memories  are  often  the  best  selecting  memories. 

"They  seldom  win  distinction  in  examinations;  but  in  Utera- 
ture  and  art  they  are  quite  incomparably  superior  to  the  mis- 
cellaneous memories  that  receive  only  as  boxes  and  drawers 
receive  what  is  put  into  them. 

"A  good  Hteraryor  artistic  memory  is  not  like  a  Post  Office  that 
takes  in  ever3i:hing,  but  like  a  very  well  edited  periodical,  which 
prints  nothing  that  does  not  harmonize  with  its  intellectual  life." 


—  26  — 

CONVERSATION. 

Professor  Matthews  says:  "Fox  acknowledged  that  he  had 
derived  more  poHtical  information  from  Burke's  conversation 
alone  than  from  books,  sciences,  and  all  his  worldly  experience 
put  together."  The  same  author  further  says:  Conversation  is  as 
necessary  as  meditation  to  the  highest  culture.  And  what  is 
more  delightful  than  this  communion  of  thinkers?  Pleasant  it  is 
to  sit  in  a  library  or  study,  with  a  goodly  array  of  wise  or  charm- 
ing books  about  you,  in  which  are  preserved,  as  in  a  vial,  the  pre- 
cious "life  blood"  of  the  world's  master  spirits;  or,  with  the 
choicest  of  those  "  abstracts  and  brief  chronicles  of  the  times," 
the  newspapers,  to  tell  how  flows  the  warm  life-blood  of  the  world, 
and  how  the  car  of  progress  goes  thundering  along  the  high  roads. 

Pleasant  is  it,  with  paper-knife  in  hand,  to  skim  the  contents 

of  the  last  monthly  magazines  brimming  with  the  freshest  wit 

and  wisdom  of  the  day;  but  pleasanter  far  than  any  of  these  is 

communion  with  living  men  whose  conversation  is  full  of  "  that 

seasoned    life  of  men  which  is  stored  up  in  books,"  who  have 

roamed  through  all  the  fields  of  literature,  and  gathering  the 

choicest  flowers  have  arranged  them  for  your  delight.     Reading 

is  a  great  pleasure,  but  it  is  solitary.     Byron  says: 

They  who  true  joy  would  win 

Must  share  it;  happiness  is  born  twin. 

True  as  this  generally  is  it  is  doubly  true  of  literary  enjoyment. 
The  fullest  instruction  and  the  fullest  enjoyment  are  never  de- 
rived from  books  till  we  have  ventilated  the  ideas  thus  obtained 
in  free  and  easy  chat  with  others. 

The  mental  faculties  demand  exercise  as  truly  as  the  bodily, 
and  enjoy  it  as  keenly.  The  mind  that  is  healthy  delights  in  the 
glow  of  movement  and  contest. 

It  loves  to  meet  Avitli  a  congenial  spirit — one  that  has  sucked 
the  sweetness  of  the  same  authors,  and  enjoyed  them  with  the 
same  gust — which  has  brought  away  their  quaint  essence,  and 
treats  it  to  the  juice  of  the  grape  without  thrusting  upon  it  the 
stalks  and  husks. 

Talking  is  a  digestive  process  which  is  absolutely  essential  to 
the  mental  construction  of  the  man  who  devours  many  books.  A 
full  mind  must  have  talk,  or  it  will  grow  dyspeptic. 


—  27  — 

Sir  William  Hamilton  used  to  say  that  a  man  never  knows  any- 
thing until  he  has  taught  it  in  some  way;  it  may  be  orally,  or  it 
may  be  in  writing  a  book.  It  is  equally  true  that  many  authors 
have  talked  better  than  they  have  written.  Philosophers  tell  us 
that  knowledge  is  precious  for  its  own  sake;  that  it  is  its  o\vn  ex- 
ceeding great  reward.  But  experience  tells  us  that  knowledge  is 
not  knowledge  until  the  use  of  it;  that  it  is  not  ours  until  we  have 
brought  it  under  the  dominion  of  the  great  social  faculty — speech. 
Solitary  reading  will  enable  a  man  to  stuff  himself  with  informa- 
tion; but  without  conversation  his  mind  will  become  like  a  pond 
without  an  outlet — a  mass  of  unhealthy  stagnature. 

It  is  not  enough  to  harvest  knowledge  by  study;  the  wind  of 
talk  must  winnow  it,  and'  blow  away  the  chaff;  then  will  the  clear, 
bright  grains  of  wisdom  be  garnered  for  our  own  use  or  that  of 
others. 

Then  let  us  talk;  and  that  our  talk  may  be  a  true  recreation, 
let  us  talk  Avith  congenial  spirits.  Such  spirits  may  be  met  with 
singly  in  the  ordinary  intercourse  of  life,  but  the  full  play  of  the 
mind  demands  that  they  should  be  encountered,  "  not  in  single 
spies,  but  in  battalions; "  and  hence  the  necessity  of  clubs  to 
bring  together,  like  steel  filings  out  of  sand  at  the  approach  of  a 
magnet,  men  of  the  most  opposite  pursuits  and  tastes,  the  attri- 
tion of  whose  minds  may  brush  away  their  rust  and  cobwebs, 
and  give  them  edge  and  polish. 

Henry  Giles  says:  Nothing  is  better  than  conversation  as  a 
corrective  of  self-sufficiency.  In  educated  conversation  a  man 
soon  finds  liis  level.  He  learns  more  truly  than  from  books,  in 
converse  with  living  men,  to  estimate  his  powers  modestly  and 
justly.  A  book  is  passive;  it  does  not  repel  pretention;  it  does 
not  rebuke  vanity.  Indeed,  reading  and  study  become  to  many 
but  the  nurture  of  conceit.  If  some  persons  value  themselves  on 
the  books  they  own,  it  is  not  surprising  that  others  should  value 
themselves  on,  the  books  they  read.  As  knowledge  grows  on  the 
thoughts  in  books,  so  pedantry  feeds  on  their  words,  and  is  proud, 
poor,  lean,  and  solitary.  In  conversation  a  man  is  not  long  in 
discovering  that  he  alone  does  not  know  ever^'thing,  and  that 
though  he  were  to  die,  ^Ansdom  would  not  perish  with  him.  In 
conversation,  intelligent  men,  comparing  themselves  among  them- 
selves, exercise  mutually  a  silent  but  a  faithful  criticism,  which. 


—  28  — 

tlioiight  just  and  candid,  is  not  indulgent;  which,  though  not 
indulgent,  is  not  ungenerous;  and  which  does  as  much  to  cement 
a  brotherly  companionship  as  it  ministers  to  mutual  improve- 
ment. Conversation,  while  correcting  the  mind,  enlarges  it.  We 
share  in  the  fruits  of  other  minds,  and  of  minds  more  productive 
than  our  own. 

The  power  that  comes  to  us  from  without,  strengthens  the  power 
that  is  within.  A  man's  thought  is  original  by  the  peculiarity  of 
his  mental  constitution ;  so  far  as  he  has  a  thought  at  all,  it  must, 
in  some  sense,  be  a  thought  distinct  from  every  other  man's 
thought.  It  is  shaped  in  the  mould  of  his  individual  intellect;  it 
is  colored  by  the  atmosphere  of  his  emotional  and  moral  character. 
A  man's  thought  is  shaped  by  the  peculiarity  of  his  personal  his- 
tory, mental  and  otherwise.  He  has  thus  an  experience,  memo- 
ries, feelings,  and  associations  through  which  none  but  himself 
have  gone.  All  these  are  more  or  less  involv^ed  in  any  word  that 
a  man  can  truly  bring  out  of  himself,  any  word  that  is  the  tran- 
script of  a  soul-grown  idea.  The  most  honest  man,  the  most 
simple-minded  man,  will  often  fail  of  this  distinctive  utterance  in 
methodical  composition  and  set  speech. 

The  individuality  of  his  idea,  of  his  being,  are  diluted  into 
verbiage,  or  they  become  lost  in  the  misty  haze  of  commonplace. 
Conversation  permits  him  to  wait  for  the  right  word,  and  supplies 
the  unbidden  inspiration  that  can  speak  it  rightly.  Thus  you 
gather  in  from  every  side  the  realities  of  mind;  the  realities  of 
life. 

The  poorest  leaves  with  you  something  which  might  have  been 
loss  not  to  have  acquired.  This  and  all  such  acquirements  enter 
into  experience.  Experience  consists  of  feelings  and  knowledge 
transmuted  into  life.  Memory  and  observation  gather  in  the 
materials;  imagination  and  reflection  work  the  transformation. 
Every  region  of  apprehensible  existence  supplies  materials,  but 
in  nothing  as  in  human  character  are  materials  of  such  value; 
and  in  conversation,  human  character  most  undesignedly  reveals 
itself.  Other  men  studied  from  our  own  position;  ourselves  stud- 
ied from  theirs ;  the  world  contemplated  alternately  from  both ; 
these,  I  take  it,  are  the  elements  of  experience;  and  in  conversa- 
tion we  have  them  all  combined. 


—  29 


BOOK  KNOWLEDGE. 

[CHESTERI'IELD.] 

I  have  this  evening  been  tired,  jaded,  nay,  tormented,  by  the 
company  of  a  most  worthy,  sensible,  and  learned  man — a  near 
relation  of  mine — who  dined  and  passed  the  evening  with  me. 
This  seems  a  paradox,  but  is  a  plain  truth;  he  has  no  knowledge 
of  the  world,  no  manners,  no  address;  far  from  talking  without 
book,  as  is  commonly  said  of  people  who  talk  silly,  he  only  talks 
by  book;  which  in  general  conversation  is  ten  times  worse.  He 
has  formed  in  his  own  closet,  from  books,  certain  systems  of  every- 
thing, argues  tenaciously  upon  those  principles,  and  is  both  sur- 
prised and  angry  at  whatever  deviates  from  them.  His  theories 
are  good,  but  unfortunately  are  impracticable.  Why?  Because 
he  has  only  read,  and  not  conversed. 


LEARN  TO   BE   BRIEF. 

[editor.] 

Long  visits,  long  stories,  long  exhortations,  and  long  prayers, 
seldom  profit  those  who  have  to  do  with  them.  Life  is  short,  time 
is  short.  Moments  are  precious.  Learn  to  condense,  abridge,  and 
intensify.  We  can  endure  many  an  ache  and  ill,  if  soon  over, 
while  even  pleasures  grow  insipid  and  intolerable,  if  they  are  pro- 
tracted beyond  the  limits  of  reason  and  convenience. 

Learn  to  be  brief;  lop  off  branches;  stick  to  the  main  fact  in 
your  case.  If  you  pray,  ask  for  what  you  would  receive  and  get 
through;  if  you  speak,  tell  your  message,  and  hold  your  tongue; 
boil  down  two  words  into  one,  and  three  into  two.  "  Learn  to  be 
brief."  Take  a  lesson  from  the  Lord's  Prayer,  which  is  brevity 
itself. 


—  30  — 

BREVITIES. 

The  writers  against  religion,  whilst  they  oppose  every  system, 
are  wisely  careful  never  to  set  up  any  of  their  own. — Edmund 
Burke. 

Good  fortune,  like  misfortune,  comes  oftentimes  when  we  least 
expect  it.  Consequently  we  should  never  jump  at  the  conclusion 
that  we  are  never  to  see  another  happy  day. — Ed. 

As  time  is  money,  and  money  is  power,  it  is  evidently  the  height 
of  folly  for  a  poor  man  to  spend  either  a  cent,  or  one  minute's  time, 
foolishly. 

It  is  one  of  two  things  with  us  in  this  world.  We  must  be 
"boss,"  or  else  be  "bossed." — Ed. 

However  virtuous  and  exemplary  a  young  man  may  have  been, 
he  is  3^et  within  peril  of  falling;  and  however  vicious  and  aban- 
doned he  ma}^  have  been,  he  is  yet  within  hope  of  saving. — Horace 
Mann. 

"  The  chief  misfortunes  that  befall  us  in  life  can  be  traced  to 
some  vices  or  follies  which  we  have  committed." 

"  They  who  have  nothing  to  give,  can  afford  relief  to  others  by 
imparting  what  they  feel." 

The  temperate  are  the  most  truly  luxurious.  By  abstaining 
from  most  things,  it  is  surprising  how  many  things  we  enjoy. — 
Samuel  Sims. 

"  He  who  lays  his  hand  upon  a  woman  save  in  the  way  of  kind- 
ness, it  were  base  flattery  to  call  him  coward." 

Query — In  denying  that  we  are  to  be  held  accountable  in  the 
next  world  for  the  misdeeds  committed  in  this,  is  the  "  wish 
father  to  the  thought?" — Ed. 

"  Deceit  is  not  sagacity." 

"  Nothing  astonishes  men  so  much  as  common  sense." 

"  Disappointment  and  distress  are  often  blessings  in  disguise." 

"  In  drinking  the  health  of  others  be  careful  you  do  not  lose 
your  own." 


—  31  — 

Lacondaire  says:  "You  cannot  imprison  reason,  you  cannot 
burn  up  facts,  you  cannot  dishonor  virtue,  you  cannot  assassinate 
logic." 

"  Most  people's  ideas  are  adopted  children;  few  brains  can  raise 
a  family  of  their  own." 

"Luxury,  pride,  and  vanity  have  frequently  as  much  influence 
in  corrupting  the  sentiments  of  the  great,  as  ignorance,  bigotry, 
and  prejudice  have  in  misleading  the  opinions  of  the  multitude." 

Luxuries  long  indulged  in  become  necessities;  consequently 
the  poor  should  never  indulge  in  them  for  any  considerable  length 
of  time,  as  the  indulgence  is  sure  to  cause  more  pain  than  pleas- 
ure.    The  whiskjf  and  opium  habits,  for  example. — Ed. 


GOOD    SENSE. 

[lord  lytton.] 

Good  sense  is  not  merely  intellectual  attribute.  It  is  the  result 
of  a  just  equilibrium  of  all  our  faculties,  spiritual  and  moral. 

The  dishonest  are  the  toys  of  their  own  passions;  may  have 
genius;  but  they  rarely,  if  ever,  have  good  sense  in  the  conduct 
of  life.  They  may  often  win  large  prizes,  but  it  is  a  game  of 
chance,  not  skill.  But  the  man  whom  I  perceive  walking  an 
honorable  and  upright  career,  just  to  others  and  also  to  himself, 
is  a  more  dignified  representative  of  his  Maker  than  the  mere 
child  of  genius.  Of  such  a  man,  we  say,  he  has  good  sense;  yes, 
but  he  has  also  integrity,  self-respect,  and  self-denial.  A  thou- 
sand trials  which  his  sense  braves  and  conquers  are  temptations 
also  to  his  probity,  his  temper;  in  a  word,  to  all  the  many  sides 
of  his  complicated  nature.  Now  I  do  not  think  he  will  have  this 
good  sense  any  more  than  a  drunkard  will  have  strong  nerves, 
unless  he  be  in  the  constant  habit  of  keeping  his  mind  clear  from 
the  intoxication  of  envy,  vanity,  and  the  various  emotions  that 
dupe  and  mislead  us.  Good  sense  is  not,  therefore,  an  abstract 
quality  or  a  solitary  talent;  it  is  the  natural  result  of  the  habit  of 
thinking  jiistly,  and,  therefore,  seeing  clearly,  and  is  as  different 
from  the  sagacity  that  belongs  to  a  diplomatist  or  an  attorney  as 
the  philosophy  of  Socrates  differs  from  the  rhetoric  of  Georgias. 


52  — 


LEARN  HOW  TO  REASON. 

[editor.] 

The  great  distinguishing  feature  between  man  and  brute  being 
reason,  it  is  astonishing  that  the  poorer  portion  of  mankind  who 
cannot  afford  to  make  a  mistake  or  to  commit  an  error,  do  not 
give  this  subject  more  thought. 

Particularly  when  we  take  into  consideration  that  their  man- 
hood, their  liberty,  and  their  very  lives,  oftentimes  depend  upon 
a  judicious  exercise  of  their  reason. 

Which  I  need  not  say — ^by  reason  of  its  apparent  truth — is  the 
greatest  of  all  God-given  faculties.  Scarcely  a  newspaper  comes 
to  hand  that  we  do  not  see  in  its  columns  an  account  of  some 
foolish  and  wicked  quarrel  that  e^ddently  never  would  have 
occurred  if  the  parties  to  the  quarrel  had  been  taught  how  to 
reason. 

"  He  who  Avill  not  reason  is  a  bigot,  he  who  cannot  is  a  fool, 
and  he  who  dares  not  is  a  slave,"  are  words  that  should  be  writ- 
ten in  gold  upon  the  walls  of  every  school  house  and  prison 
throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land. 

I  have  been  led  into  this  chain  of  thought,  by  reading  the  fol- 
lowing pungent  and  able  article  by  the  editor  of  the  Oakland 
Times,  which  reads  as  follows:  "  The  handy  pistol  has  got  in  its 
work  again  in  the  affair  of  Kennedy- Bohen,  at  San  Jose.  These 
shootings,  as  the  incidents  of  personal  disputes,  are  always  the 
result  of  ignorance  and  the  evidence  of  barbarism.  Men  who 
have  never  learned  how  to  think,  who  have  no  training  or  logic, 
who  have  been  guided  always  by  prejudice  which  never  reasons, 
find  themselves  in  wordy  conflict.  Neither  knows  what  argument 
is,  so  neither  is  able  to  intelligently  say  what  he  thinks  he  knows. 
So,  with  many  words,  one  man  succeeds  in  saying  nothing,  and 
with  more  words  the  other  says  nothing  in  answering  him.  Each 
discovers  that  he  is  saying  nothing,  whereupon  he  proceeds  to 
rave,  curse,  swear,  and  blackguard.  The  blasphemous  challenge 
is  at  once  accepted  by  the  other,  and  it  is  discovered  that  the  two 
owe  their  intellectual  vacancy  and  degradation  to  the  habit  of 
substituting  denunciation  for  argument  and  curses  for  climaxes. 
A  foolish  world  laments  when  they  pull  their  pops   and  crack 


—  33  — 

away  at  each  other.  Rather  should  the  world  rejoice  that  each 
fool  turns  fool-killer,  for  so  are  decimated  the  ranks  of  the  flat- 
heads,  whose  thinking  is  done  for  them  by  demagogues  who 
make  up  the  substance  of  the  mob,  who  are  the  ragged  foot  sol- 
diers of  communism." 

Professor  J.  H.  Newman  says:  "The  man  who  has  learned  to 
think,  and  to  reason,  and  to  compare,  and  to  discriminate,  and 
to  analyze;  who  has  refined  his  taste,  and  formed  his  judgment, 
and  sharpened  his  mental  vision,  will  not  indeed  at  once  be  a 
lawyer,  or  a  pleader,  or  an  orator,  or  a  statesman,  or  a  physician, 
or  a  good  landlord,  or  a  man  of  business,  or  a  soldier,  or  an  engi- 
neer, or  a  chemist,  or  a  geologist,  or  an  antiquarian ;  but  he  will 
be  placed  in  that  state  of  intellect  in  which  he  can  take  up  any 
one  of  these  sciences  or  callings,  or  any  other  for  Avhich  he  has  a 
taste  or  special  talent,  with  an  ease,  a  grace,  a  versatility,  and  a 
success,  to  which  another  is  a  stranger." 


ON  DISCRETION. 

[ADDISON.] 

There  are  many  more  shining  qualities  in  the  mind  of  man, 
but  there  is  none  so  useful  as  discretion.  It  is  this,  indeed,  which 
gives  a  value  to  all  the  rest;  which  sets  them  at  work  in  their 
proper  times  and  places,  and  turns  them  to  the  advantage  of 
tlie  person  who  is  possessed  of  them.  Without  it  learning  is 
pedantry  and  wit  impertinence;  ^'irtue  itself  looks  like  weak- 
ness; the  best  parts  only  qualify  a  man  to  be  more  sprightly  in 
errors  and  active  to  his  own  prejudices.  Discretion  does  not  only 
make  a  man  the  master  of  his  own  parts,  but  of  other  men's. 
The  discreet  man  finds  out  the  talents  of  those  he  communes  with, 
and  knows  how  to  apply  them  to  the  proper  uses.  Accordingly, 
if  we  look  into  particular  communities  and  divisions  of  men,  we 
may  observe  that  it  is  the  discreet  man,  not  the  witty,  nor  the 
learned,  nor  the  brave,  who  guides  the  conversation  and  gives 
measures  to  society.  A  man  with  great  talents,  but  void  of  dis- 
cretion, is  like  Polyphemus  in  the  fable,  strong  and  blind:  endued 
with  an  irresistible  force,  which,  for  want  of  sight,  is  of  no  use 

to  him. 

3 


—  34  — 

Though  a  man  has  all  other  perfections,  yet  if  he  wants  discre- 
tion he  will  be  of  no  great  consequence  in  the  world;  on  the  con- 
trary, if  he  has  this  single  talent  in  perfection,  and  but  a  common 
share  of  others,  he  may  do  what  he  pleases  in  his  particular  sta- 
tion in  life.  At  the  same  time  that  I  think  discretion  the  most 
useful  talent  a  man  can  be  master  of,  I  look  upon  cunnmg  to  be 
the  accomplishment  of  little,  mean,  ungenerous  minds. 

Discretion  points  out  the  noblest  ends  to  us,  and  pursues  the 
most  proper  and  laudable  methods  of  attaining  them.  Cunning 
has  only  private,  selfish  aims,  and  sticks  at  nothing  which  may 
make  them  succeed.  Discretion  has  large  and  extended  views; 
and  like  a  well  formed  eye,  commands  a  whole  horizon;  cunning 
is  a  sort  of  short-sightedness,  that  discovers  the  minutest  objects 
which  are  near  at  hand,  but  is  not  able  to  discover  things  at  a  dis- 
tance. Discretion,  the  more  it  is  discovered,  gives  greater  author- 
ity to  the  persons  who  possess  it;  cunning,  when  it  is  once  detected, 
loses  its  force,  and  makes  a  man  incapable  of  bringing  about  even 
those  events  which  he  might  have  done  had  he  passed  only  for  a 
plain  man.  Discretion  is  the  perfection  of  reason,  and  a  guide  to 
us  in  all  the  duties  of  life;  cunning  is  a  kind  of  instinct,  that  only 
looks  out  after  our  immediate  interest  and  welfare.  Discretion  is 
only  found  in  men  of  strong  sense  and  good  understandings;  cun- 
ning is  often  to  be  met  with  in  brutes  themselves,  and  in  persons 
who  are  but  the  fewest  removes  from  them.  In  short,  cunning  is 
only  the  mimic  of  discretion;  and  it  may  pass  upon  weak  men,  in 
the  same  manner  as  vivacity  is  often  mistaken  for  wit,  and  grav- 
ity for  wisdom. 


SELF-RESPECT. 

[SAMUEL   SMILES.] 

Self-discipline  and  self-control  are  the  beginning  of  practical 
wisdom,  and  these  must  have  their  root  in  self-respect. 

Hope  springs  from  it — hope  which  is  the  companion  of  power 
and  the  mother  of  success;  for  who  hopes  strongly  has  within  him 
the  gift  of  miracles. 

The  humblest  may  say:  "  To  respect  myself,  to  develop  myself; 
this  is  my  true  duty  in  life.      An  integral  and  responsible  part  of 


—  35  — 

the  great  system  of  society,  I  owe  it  to  society  and  to  its  author 
not  to  degrade  or  destroy  either  my  body,  mind,  or  instincts.  On 
the  contrary,  I  am  bound  to  the  best  of  my  power  to  give  to  those 
parts  of  my  constitution  the  highest  degree  of  perfection  possible. 
"  I  am  not  only  to  suppress  the  evil  but  to  evoke  the  good  ele- 
ments in  my  nature.  And  as  I  respect  myself  so  am  I  equally 
bound  to  respect  others,  as  they  on  their  part  are  bound  to  respect 
me." 

Hence,  mutual  respect,  justice,  and  order,  of  which  law  becomes 
the  written  record  and  guarantee. 

Self-respect  is  the  noblest  garment  with  which  a  man  may 
clothe  himself — the  most  elevating  feeling  with  which  mind  can 
be  inspired. 

One  of  Pythagoras'  wisest  maxims,  in  his  "  Golden  Verses,"  is 
that  with  which  he  enjoins  the  pupil  to  "reverence  himself." 
Borne  up  by  this  high  idea,  he  will  not  defile  his  body  by  sensual- 
ity, nor  his  mind  by  servile  thoughts.  This  sentiment  carried  into 
daily  life  will  be  found  at  the  root  of  all  the  virtues — cleanliness, 
sobriety,  charity,  morality,  and  religion. 

"  The  pious  and  just  honoring  of  ourselves,"  said  Milton,  "may 
be  thought  the  radical  moisture  and  fountain-head  from  whence 
every  laudible  and  worthy  enterprise  issues  forth." 

To  think  meanly  of  one's  self,  is  to  sink  into  one's  own  estima- 
tion, as  well  as  in  the  estimation  of  others.  And  as  the  thoughts 
are,  so  will  the  acts  be.  Man  cannot  aspire  if  he  looks  down;  if 
he  will  rise,  he  must  look  up.  The  very  humblest  may  be  sus- 
tained by  the  proper  indulgence  of  this  feeling. 

Poverty  itself  may  be  lifted  and  lighted  up  by  self-respect,  and 
it  is  truly  a  noble  sight  to  see  a  poor  man  hold  himself  upright 
amidst  the  temptations,  and  refuse  to  demean  himself  by  low 
actions. 


—  36 


THE  SCHOOL  OF  DIFFICULTIES  THE  BEST  INSTRUCTOR. 

[.SAMUEL    SMILES.] 

To  use  the  words  of  Burke,  difficulty  is  a  severe  instructor,  set 
over  us  by  supreme  ordinance  of  a  paternal  guardian  and  in- 
structor, who  knows  us  better  than  we  know  ourselves,  as  he  loves 
us  better,  too.  "  He  that  wrestles  with  us  strengthens  our  nerves 
and  sharpens  our  skill;  our  antagonist  is  thus  our  helper." 

Without  the  necessity  of  encountering  difficulty  life  might  be 
easier,  but  men  would  be  worthless. 

For  trials,  wisely  improved,  train  the  character  and  teach  self- 
help;  thus  hardship  may  often  prove  the  wholesomest  discipline 
for  us,  though  we  recognize  it  not. 

When  the  gallant  young  Hodson,  unjustly  removed  from  his 
Indian  command,  felt  himself  sore  pressed  down  b}^  unmerited 
calumny  and  reproach,  he  yet  preserved  the  courage  to  say  to  a 
friend  :  "  I  strive  to  look  the  worst  boldly  in  the  face,  as  I  would 
an  enemy  in  the  field,  and  do  my  appointed  work  resolutely  and 
to  the  best  of  my  ability,  satisfied  that  there  is  reason  for  all,  and 
that  even  irksome  duties  well  done  bring  their  own  reward,  and 
that  if  not,  still  they  are  duties." 

The  battle  of  life  is,  in  most  cases,  fought  uphill,  and  to  win  it 
without  a  struggle  were,  perhaps,  to  win  it  without  honor.  If 
there  were  no  difficulties  there  would  be  no  success;  if  there  were 
nothing  to  struggle  for  there  would  be  nothing  to  be  achieved. 

Difficulties  may  intimidate  the  weak,  but  they  act  only  as  a 
wholesome  stimulus  to  men  of  resolution  and  valor.  All  experi- 
ence of  life,  indeed,  serves  to  prove  that  the  impediments  thrown 
in  the  way  of  human  advancement  may,  for  the  most  part,  be 
overcome  by  steady,  good  conduct,  honest  zeal,  activity,  perse- 
verance, and,  above  all,  by  a  determined  resolution  to  surmount 
difficulties  and  stand  up  manfully  against  misfortune.  The  school 
of  difficulty  is  the  best  school  of  moral  discipline  for  nations  as 
for  individuals.  Indeed,  the  history  of  all  the  great  and  good 
things  that  have  3'et  been  accomplished  by  men. 

Wherever  there  is  difficulty,  the  individual  man  must  come  out 
for  l)etter,  for  worse.  Encounter  witli  it  will  train  his  strength 
and  discipline  his  skill,  heartening  him  for  future  effort,  as  the 


—  37  — 

racer,  by  being  trained  to  run  against  the  hill,  at  length  courses 
with  facility.  The  road  to  success  may  be  steep  to  climb,  and  it 
puts  to  the  proof  the  energies  of  him  who  would  reach  the  summit. 

But  by  experience  a  man  soon  learns  that  obstacles  are  to  be 
overcome  by  grappling  with  them ;  that  the  nettle  feels  as  soft  as 
silk  when  it  is  boldly  grasped ;  and  that  the  most  effective  help 
towards  realizing  the  object  proposed  is  the  moral  conviction  that 
we  can  and  will  accomplish  it.  Thus  difficulties  often  fall  away 
of  themselves  before  the  determination  to  overcome  them.  ]Much 
will  be  done  if  we  do  but  trv.  Nobody  kno^^s  what  he  can  do  till 
he  has  tried;  and  few  tr}''  their  best  till  they  have  been  forced  to 
do  it.  "  If  I  could  do  such  and  such  a  thing,"  sighs  the  despond- 
ing youth. 

But  nothing  will  be  done  if  he  only  wishes.  The  desire  must 
ripen  into  purpose  and  effort;  and  one  energetic  attempt  is  worth 
a  thousand  aspirations.  It  is  these  thorny  "ifs" — the  mutterings 
of  impotence  and  despair — which  so  often  hedge  round  the  field 
of  possibility,  and  prevent  anything  being  done  or  even  attempted. 
A  difficulty,  said  Lord  Lyndhurst,  is  a  "thing  to  be  overcome;" 
grapple  with  it  at  once;  facility  will  come  with  practice,  and 
strength  and  fortitude  with  repeated  effort. 

Thus  the  mind  and  character  may  be  trained  to  an  almost  per- 
fect discipline,  and  enabled  to  act  with  a  grace,  spirit,  and  liberty, 
almost  incomprehensible  to  those  who  have  not  passed  through  a 
similar  experience.  Everything  that  we  learn  is  the  mastery  of 
a  difficulty;  and  the  mastery  of  one  helps  to  the  mastery  of 
others. 

D'Alembert's  advice  to  the  student  who  complained  to  him 
abotit  his  want  of  success  in  mastering  the  first  elements  of  math- 
ematics was  the  right  one,  'Go  on,  sir,  and  faith  and  strength 
will  come  to  you." 

The  danseuse  who  turns  a  pirouette,  the  \nolinist  who  plays  a 
sonata,  have  acquired  their  dexterity  by  patient  repetition  and 
after  many  failures. 

Carisimi,  when  praised  for  the  ease  and  grace  of  his  melodies, 
exclaimed,  "Ah!  you  little  know  with  what  difficulty  this  ease 
has  been  acquired." 

Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  when  once  asked  how  long  it  had  taken 
him  to  paint  a  certain  picture,  replied,  "All  my  life." 


—  38  — 

Henry  Clay,  the  American  orator,  when  giving  advice  to  young 
men,  thus  described  to  them  the  secret  of  his  success  in  the  cul- 
tivation of  his  art:  "I  owe  my  success  in  life,"  said  he,  "chiefly 
to  one  circumstance — that  at  the  age  of  twenty-seven  I  com- 
menced, and  continued  for  years,  the  process  of  daily  reading 
and  speaking  upon  the  contents  of  some  historical  or  scientific 
book.  These  off-hand  efforts  were  made,  sometimes  in  a  corn- 
field, at  others  in  the  forest,  and  not  unfrequently  in  some  distant 
barn,  with  the  horse  and  the  ox  for  my  auditors.  It  is  to  this 
earl}^  practice  of  the  art  of  all  arts  that  I  am  indebted  for  the 
primary  and  leading  impulses  that  stimulated  me  onward  and 
have  shaped  and  moulded  my  whole  subsequent  destiny." 

Curran,  the  Irish  orator,  when  a  youth,  had  a  strong  defect  in 
his  articulation,  and  at  school  he  was  known  as  "  Stuttering  Jack 
Curran."  While  he  was  engaged  in  the  study  of  the  law,  and 
still  struggling  to  overcome  his  defect,  he  was  stung  into  eloquence 
by  the  sarcasm  of  a  member  of  a  debating  club,  who  character- 
ized him  as  "Orator  Mum,"  for,  like  Cowper,  when  he  stood  up  to 
speak  on  a  previous  occasion,  Curran  had  not  been  able  to  utter  a 
word. 

The  taunt  stung  him,  and  he  replied  in  a  triumphant  speech. 
This  accidental  discovery  in  himself  of  the  gift  of  eloquence 
encouraged  him  to  proceed  in  his  studies  with  renewed  energy. 
He  corrected  his  enunciation  by  reading  aloud,  emphatically  and 
distinctly,  the  best  passages  in  literature  for  several  hours  every 
day,  stud3dng  his  features  before  a  mirror,  and  adopting  a  method 
of  gesticulation  suited  to  his  rather  awkward  and  ungraceful 
figure. 

He  also  proposed  cases  to  himself,  which  he  argued  with  as 
much  care  as  if  he  had  been  addressing  a  jury.  Curran  began 
business  with  the  qualification  which  Lord  Eldon  stated  to  be  the 
first  request  for  distinction,  that  is,  "to  be  not  worth  a  shilling." 

While  working  his  way  laboriously  at  the  bar,  still  oppressed 
by  the  diffidence  which  had  overcome  him  in  his  debating  club, 
he  was  on  one  occasion  provoked  by  the  Judge  (Robinson)  into 
making  a  very  severe  retort.  In  the  case  under  discussion,  Cur- 
ran observed,  that  he  had  never  met  the  law  laid  down  by  his 
lordship  in  any  books  in  his  library.  "  That  may  be,  sir,"  said 
the  Judge,  in  a  contemptuous  tone,  "but  I  suspect  that  your 


—  39  — 

library  is  very  small."  His  lordship  was  notoriously  a  furious 
political  partisan,  the  author  of  several  anonymous  pamphlets 
characterized  by  unusual  violence  and  dogmatism.  Curran, 
aroused  by  the  allusion  to  his  straitened  circumstances,  replied 
thus:  "It  is  very  true,  my  lord,  that  I  am  poor,  and  that  circum- 
stances have  certainly  curtailed  my  library;  my  books  are  not 
numerous,  but  they  are  select,  and  I  hope  they  have  been  perused 
with  proper  disposition.  I  have  prepared  myself  for  this  high 
profession  by  the  study  of  a  few  good  works  rather  than  by  the 
composition  of  a  great  many  bad  ones.  I  am  not  ashamed  of  my 
poverty,  but  I  should  be  ashamed  of  my  wealth  could  I  have 
stooped  to  acquire  it  by  servility  and  corruption.  If  I  rise  not  to 
rank  I  shall  at  least  be  honest;  and  should  I  ever  cease  to  be  so, 
many  an  example  shows  me  that  an  ill-gained  elevation,  by  mak- 
ing me  the  more  conspicuous,  would  only  make  me  the  more  uni- 
versally and  the  more  notoriously  contemptible." 

William  Cobbett's  account  of  how  he  learned  English  grammar 
is  full  of  interest  and  instruction  for  all  students  laboring  under 
difficulties.  "  I  learned  grammar,"  said  he,  "when  I  was  a  private 
soldier  on  the  pay  of  sixpence  a  day.  The  edge  of  my  berth,  or 
that  of  my  guard-bed,  was  my  seat  to  study  in;  my  knapsack 
was  my  bookcase;  a  list  of  books  lying  on  my  lap  was  my  writ- 
ing-table, and  the  task  did  not  demand  anything  like  a  }^ear  of 
my  life.  I  had  no  money  to  purchase  candle  or  oil.  In  winter 
time  it  was  rarely  I  could  get  any  evening  light  but  that  of  the 
fire,  and  only  my  turn  even  at  that.  And  if  I,  under  such  cir- 
cumstances, and  without  parent  or  friend  to  ad\dse  or  encourage 
me,  accomplished  this  undertaking,  what  excuse  can  there  be  for 
any  youth,  however  poor,  however  pressed  with  business,  or  how- 
ever circumstanced  as  to  room  or  other  conveniences. 

"  To  buy  pen  or  a  sheet  of  paper  I  was  compelled  to  forego  some 
portion  of  food,  though  in  a  state  of  half  starvation;  I  had.no 
moment  of  time  that  I  could  call  my  own,  and  I  had  to  read  and 
write  amidst  the  talking,  laughing,  whistling,  brawling  of  at  least 
half  a  score  of  the  most  thoughtless  of  men,  and  that,  too,  in  the 
hours  of  their  freedom  from  all  control.  Think  not  lightly  of  the 
farthing  that  I  had  to  give  now  and  then  for  ink,  pen,  or  paper! 
That  farthing  was,  alas!  a  great  sum  to  me.  I  was  as  tall  as  I  am 
now;  I  had  great  health  and  great  exercise.     The  whole  of  the 


—  40  — 

money  not  expended  for  us  at  market  was  twopence  a  week  for 
each  man. 

"  I  remember,  and  well  I  may!  that  on  one  occasion  I,  after  all 
necessary  expenses,  had,  on  a  Friday,  made  shift  to  have  a  half- 
penny in  reserve,  which  I  had  destined  for  the  purchase  of  a  red 
herring  in  the  morning;  but  when  I  pulled  off  my  clothes  at 
night,  so  hungry  then  as  to  be  hardly  able  to  endure  life,  I  found 
that  I  had  lost  my  halfpenny!  I  buried  my  head  under  the  mis- 
erable sheet  and  rug,  and  cried  like  a  child.  And  again  I  say,  if 
I,  under  circumstances  like  these,  could  encounter  and  overcome 
this  task,  is  there,  can  there  be,  in  the  whole  world,  a  youth  to 
find  an  excuse  for  the  non-performance  ?" 


TEMPER. 

[henry  GILES.] 

It  is  trvily  astonishing  how  little  our  moral  reflections  dwell 
upon  our  tempers ;  how  seldom  the  errors  of  it  impress  us  with  any 
strong  regrets  or  penitence.  We  rarely  blame  ourselves  on  their 
account,  and  we  further  presume  that  others  also  ought  not  to 
blame  us.  We  A'alue  a  good  reputation  beyond  riches,  and  for 
fame  or  fortune  we  think  no  exertion  too  great;  but  as  to  the  regu- 
lation of  temper,  not  to  say  that  we  rarely  esteem  it  a  duty,  we 
rarely  give  it  a  thought.  We  do  not  reflect  on  the  space  of  exist- 
ence over  which  our  temper  spreads,  and  which  it  bathes  in  light 
or  sows  with  thorns.  We  do  not  remember  how  passing  cruel  we 
may  be  without  inflicting  wounds  of  imprisonment,  without  either 
the  dagger  or  the  dungeon.  We  do  not  think  that  we  are  all  crea- 
tures of  sympathy,  that  we  share  each  other's  life,  and  that  we 
have  a  power,  all  but  boundless,  to  render  each  other  happy  or 
unhappy.  In  the  strength  of  our  selfishness  we  too  often  forget 
the  harshness  of  our  words,  the  coldness  or  bitterness  of  our  looks, 
and  we  care  not  for  the  deep  and  bleeding  incisions  which  they 
leave  behind  them.  We  do  not  enough  consider  how  much  a 
gentle  temper  may  be  the  evidence  of  a  noble  nature;  and  how 
much  an  ungentle  one  may  be  the  shadowing  forth  of  a  dark  and 
contracted  soul;  the  moral  beauty  as  well  as  moral  strength  that 


—  41  — 

are  implied  in  sweetness  of  spirit,  and  the  moral  hideousness  that 
makes  its  dwelling  in  a  bitter  heart. 

What  is  the  difference  in  principle  between  the  most  cruel  ty- 
rant and  the  truest  lover  of  his  kind  ?  It  is  temper.  When  3'our 
imagination  forms  to  itself  the  idea  of  an  angel  or  a  fiend,  what 
is  still  the  difference  ?  It  is  temper.  And  could  you  clothe  the 
angel  or  the  fiend  in  human  shape,  the  most  prominent  character- 
istic in  each  would  yet  be  temper. 

As  to  those  also  whom  we  once  have  known,  who  casually 
crossed  our  path,  or  walked  along  with  us  for  years  in  this,  our 
pilgrimage,  does  not  our  involuntary  memory  turn  to  their  habits 
of  temper? 

When  their  bones  are  in  ashes,  when  many  of  their  good  and 
bad  deeds  have  gone  into  forgetfulness,  again  and  again  they  live 
to  us  in  the  recollection  of  their  tempers;  we  see  again  their 
benign  or  clouded  looks,  we  hear  again  their  kind  or  harsh  ex- 
pressions. We  can  forget  an  act  of  malice,  however  dark,  but  we 
cannot  forget  that  which  for  years  has  eaten  as  iron  into  our  souls. 

We  may  be  ungrateful  for  an  act  of  goodness,  however  generous, 
but  we  are  unable  to  dissolve  the  charm  which  through  many 
days  of  peace  and  charity,  spreads  its  light  around  us.  We 
consider  not  how  much  temper  enters  into  daily  life;  how  it 
penetrates  the  whole  surface  of  existence;  that  it  is  our  daily 
employments,  in  our  general  society,  in  our  homes,  around  our 
hearths;  that  it  gives  sweetness  to  the  dinner  of  herbs,  or  turns 
luxury  to  the  food  of  misery. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  enumerate  and  classify  all  the  fail- 
ings of  temper,  for  they  are  as  many  as  there  are  peculiarities  of 
human  character.  The  general  constitution  of  the  mind  gives 
the  cast  to  the  temper;  and  therefore  the  varieties  of  temper  must 
be  infinite.  We  shall,  however,  glance  at  bad  temper  in  a  few  of 
its  most  evil  forms,  and  we  can  only  do  so  in  some  of  their  broader 
distinctions.  There  are  the  violent,  strong  in  coarse  and  selfish 
passions,  unable  to  bear  any  contradiction  to  a  stubborn  will,  and, 
as  the  case  may  be,  they  keep  in  strife  a  nation  or  a  household. 
The  temper  of  this  species  is  the  prime  element  in  the  tyrannic 
character,  whether  of  greater  or  smaller  dimensions,  whether  of  a 
family  or  an  empire.     Give  it  a  religious  direction  and  it  makes 


—  42  — 

the  bigot,  the  fanatic,  and  the  persecutor.  Give  it  power,  and  it 
will  again  open  the  inquisition,  or  rekindle  the  fires  of  the  stake. 

In  more  calm  and  respectable  orders  of  society,  wherever  deco- 
rum at  the  least  has  rule,  this  disposition  can  have  but  rare 
exhi})ition;  but  in  other  grades  of  life,  in  which  character  has  but 
rude  formation  and  expression, no  restraint,  it  has  a  ravaging  and 
a  fearful  existence.  It  grieves  one  to  the  very  heart  to  know  that 
a  low,  barbarous,  and  ruffian  nature,  sulky,  obtuse,  and  unfor- 
bearing,  can  fill  to  the  brim  the  measure  of  calamity,  that  the 
few  he  has  near  him  can  endure;  that  the  home  he  calls  his 
castle,  he  can  for  others  make  a  dungeon;  that  the  liberty  of 
which  he  boasts,  he  can  make  to  them  a  bondage;  that  the  power 
which  should  be  their  guardianship,  he  can  make  their  terror;  it 
grieves  one,  I  say,  to  know  that  such  a  savage  may  exist  in  a  free 
and  Christian  country;  that  he  can  heap  sorrows  without  number 
on  dependent  and  defenseless  victims;  that  he  can  embitter  their 
existence  and  bruise  their  hearts;  that  within  his  sphere  of 
bounded  tyranny,  he  can  be  as  complete  a  despot  as  if  he  wore 
the  crown  of  all  the  Russias — a  cruel,  fierce,  and  unmitigated 
despot. 

There  are,  again,  the  morose;  and  the  temper  of  this  class,  as 
it  has  various  forms,  so  it  has  likewise  manifold  sources.  It  may 
be  founded  in  extreme  self-consequence,  or  in  extreme  self-dissat- 
isfaction, and  it  may  be  evidenced  in  haughty  contempt,  or  in 
silent  and  cold  indifference.  Such  a  temper  constrains  the  spirit; 
it  leaves  the  soul  few  social  attractions  and  few  generous  desires; 
it  throws  gloom  where  there  ought  to  be  light;  it  withers  the 
smile  half  formed;  it  silences  the  word  half  spoken;  it  robs 
action  of  loveliness,  and  takes  all  grace  from  speech;  it  has  no 
soul  of  frank  and  generous  appreciation;  its  natural  element  is  to 
destroy  rather  than  to  create;  it  seems  to  live  only  to  prove  how 
nmch  a  rational  creature  may  mistake  the  object  of  his  existence, 
and  how  much  pain  one  human  creature  may  give  to  another 
without  reaping  any  gain  or  pleasure  to  himself  The  misery  that 
violence  inflicts,  it  inflicts  openl}'^ — this  does  it  silently;  violence 
often  feels  its  wrong — this  never;  violence  has  its  moments  of 
deep  compunction,  and  periods  of  sorrowful  and  gentle  tender- 
ness, that  almost  atone  for  many  of  its  worst  injuries — but  this 
austere  reserve    has  no  visitings  of    open-heartedness,  and    no 


—  43  — 

times  of  refreshment.  I  have  said  that  a  violent  temper  makes 
the  tyrant — this  makes  the  cynic;  I  have  said  that  a  violent 
temper  makes  the  fanatic — this  makes  the  ascetic;  if  both,  there- 
fore, be  equal  in  unkindness,  the  one  is  at  least  more  coldly  intol- 
erable than  the  other. 

Further,  there  are  the  revengeful.  The  others  I  have  mentioned 
are  commonly  founded  in  pride;  this  more  frequently  in  vanity. 
Pride  can  be  magnanimous,  can  forget,  and  can  forgive;  but 
wounded  vanity  remembers  an  offense  forever,  and  seldom  for- 
gives it.  To  beings  of  this  spirit,  flattery  is  the  very  breath  of 
their  nostrils,  the  food  of  their  life.  Rough  or  disagreeable  truth 
is  not  to  be  endured;  but  what,  then,  must  be  positive  injustice? 
Sensitive  at  all  points,  such  persons  are  hurt  when  you  do  not 
know  it  and  could  not  intend  it.  Often  3'ou  give  a  mortal  stab 
when  3^ou  but  make  a  careless  movement;  they  ponder  over  words 
and  actions  until  a  mole-hill  seems  to  be  a  mountain,  and  they 
revolve  and  revolve  the  thought  so  often  that  an  offense  becomes 
fixed,  immovable  in  their  imaginations;  they  catch  the  trans- 
gressor b}'-  the  throat  and  will  not  let  him  go  until  he  has  paid 
the  uttermost  farthing.  In  this  imperfect  world  we  have  many 
failings  and  many  provocations,  but  as  we  value  the  least  frag- 
ment of  a  benign  humanity,  let  us  keep  the  spirit  free  from  this 
most  bitter  dreg  of  earthly  evils,  this  last  and  worst  sin  of  a  short- 
sighted and  corrupt  nature.  O,  let  us,  as  we  value  our  own 
heart's  best  and  most  godlike  peace,  as  we  value  every  moment 
of  present  tranquillity  and  of  future  hope,  keep  them  free  from 
anti-social  and  hard  and  unmerciful  dispositions. 

There  are,  moreover,  the  discontented.  The  temper  of  these  is 
that  which  goes  from  Dan  to  Beersheba,  and  on  every  step  of  the 
way  cries  that  all  is  barren.  This  is  the  one  that  sees  little  in 
man  or  in  life  with  the  open  heart  or  clear  eye  of  enjoyment;  this 
is  the  one  that  no  society  can  please,  that  no  character  can  suit, 
that  no  exertions  can  earn  approval  from,  that  no  condition  can 
satisfy;  that  is,  equally  complaining,  equally  unhapp}'',  equally 
dissatisfied,  in  prosperity  or  in  poverty.  For  those  of  such  spirit, 
earth  has  no  retreat;  they  can  have  no  shelter  and  no  refuge. 
^Mlither  can  the}'  flee?  The  world  is  full  of  imperfections,  and 
so  are  the  men  who  live  in  it.  If  we  have  only  sight  for  evils, 
they  are  abundant  in  every  place  and  in  all  conditions;  wherever 


—  44  — 

we  turn,  if  we  will  look  on  aught  but  these,  we  must  have  aching 
heads  and  aching  souls. 

There  are  persons  who  seem  even  to  delight  in  proving  that 
there  is  in  the  world  more  of  evil  than  of  good,  and  more  of  what 
is  baneful  than  of  what  is  beautiful.  They  take  joy  from  pros- 
perity, and  they  add  more  than  its  natural  bitterness  to  poverty; 
in  success  the}^  are  without  gratitude,  in  failure  they  are  without 
patience  or  dignity;  to  describe  them  in  few  words,  they  are 
always  disappointed.  The  mountain  or  the  plain,  the  city  or  the 
desert,  soft  skies  or  dark  ones,  are  all  equal  to  those  who  will  not 
see  the  works  of  God  with  a  single  eye,  and  will  not  hear  the 
words  of  man  with  an  open  ear.  The  glories  of  nature,  or  the 
glories  of  art,  men,  books,  or  business — nothing  can  take  from 
them  the  occasion  to  complain.  No  gleam  from  heaven  can  cheer 
their  hearts,  no  sounds  on  earth  can  charm  awa}^  their  irritation. 
There  is  no  benison  in  religion  that  can  give  them  a  contented 
peace;  they  wither  under  a  spiritual  malady;  they  are  not  happy, 
and,  stranger  still,  they  scarcely  would  be  happy.  If  this  be 
thought  an  overcolored  picture,  turn  to  what  we  witness  daily  in 
life,  to  what  we  daily  feel  in  our  own  minds,  the  peevish  tempers 
in  which  we  all  so  constantly  indulge,  and  in  which  we  think  it  no 
harm  to  indulge,  the  remorseless  and  ungenerous  petulance  with 
which  we  hurt  our  fellow  creatures,  with  which  we  make  them 
suffer  for  any  of  our  own  small  vexations  or  annoyances — vexa- 
tions or  annoyances  that  we  have  brought  upon  ourselves,  and 
which  it  is  more  than  probable  we  fully  merit.  In  this  most 
unamiable  temper  we  chill  and  disgust  the  best  intentioned 
friends;  the  movement  of  kindness  is  despised;  the  word  of  affec- 
tion dies  upon  the  lips  of  the  vitterer;  a  willingness  to  think  wrong 
where  it  is  not,  to  exaggernte  where  it  is,  predominates  in  such 
natures;  no  devotion  of  attachment,  no  ardor  of  generosity,  no 
zeal  of  love  can  conquer  it.  Child  or  servant  lives  but  in  slavery 
or  fear,  and  often  when  most  deserving  receives  most  rebuke. 

Brethren,  if  our  souls  are  tortured  with  unknown  sorrows,  as 
many  of  them  must  be,  if  we  have  griefs  for  which  we  have  no 
speech,  if  we  have  cares  with  which  we  cannot  trust  the  stranger, 
if  we  have  thoughts  and  woes  which  we  have  no  heart  to  tell  even 
to  our  nearest  friends,  yet  let  us  not  dishonor  them,  let  us  not 
desecrate  them  by  distilling  them  into  the  venom  of  ungenial 


—  45  — 

tempers,  let  us  magnanimously  endure  them,  let  us  be  ourselves 
the  martyrs  of  our  own  sufferings;  and  if  we  cannot  assauge 
them  in  our  closet  by  weeping  and  by  prayer,  let  us  not  embitter 
the  lot  of  others  by  peevishness  and  by  cynicisms.  If  we  cannot 
be  cheerful,  let  us  at  least  not  be  unamiable.  If  we  cannot  rejoice 
when  others  rejoice,  let  us  not  throw  gall  into  the  cup  of  pleasure 
which  mortals  here  are  permitted  to  taste,  and  which  must  soon 
be  emptied. 

But  to  observe,  as  sometimes  we  all  may,  the  face  grow  dark, 
and  the  tones  become  harsh,  on  account  of  some  wretched  trifle, 
some  bubble  that  is  to  vanish  in  a  moment,  we  wonder  not  it  should 
be  so,  because  they  are  Christians,  but  because  they  are  rational 
creatures;  we  wonder  not  because  they  give  pain  to  brethren,  but 
because  the}'  ruffle  their  own  peace:  and  all  this  for  what  to 
either  was  not  worth  a  moment's  trouble  or  a  moment's  anno}'- 
ance. 

To  close  the  enumeration  we  mention  the  capricious;  and  this 
is  the  worst,  for  it  is  the  most  uncertain.  You  have  nothing  on 
which  to  calculate:  you  have  no  means  of  refuge  or  of  remedy. 
To  the  violent  and  morose,  you  may  oppose  patience  and  thus 
disarm  them;  the  haughty  we  may  meet  with  humility,  and 
haply  subdue  them;  the  discontented  you  may  learn  not  to 
notice;  the  peevish,  if  they  are  worth  gaining,  or  your  duty 
teaches  you  to  make  the  effort,  you  may  at  least  gain  by  proofs  of 
sincerity  and  tenderness ;  but  of  the  capricious  you  have  never  the 
slightest  security,  neither  for  hatred  nor  for  love.  Gentle  this  hour, 
they  are  stern  in  the  next,  zealous  and  indifferent,  kindly  and 
severe,  indulgent  and  vindictive,  charitable  and  unmerciful;  thev 
run  incessantly  through  all  modes  of  feeling;  they  exhibit  in  no 
long  periods  of  time  all  possible  contrasts  of  characters;  their  evil 
is  equally  evanescent  with  their  good,  but  you  can  never  be  armed 
for  their  e\dl,  and  you  have  no  sooner  felt  their  good,  than  you 
fear  to  lose  it.  At  one  time  they  would  move  heaven  and  earth  to 
make  you  happy,  and  in  the  turn  of  a  moment  they  would  scarcely 
move  a  finger;  at  one  time  they  would  burden  you  with  favors, 
and  at  others  they  heap  on  you  their  darkest  disUke;  to-day  they 
offer  you  their  friendship  and  to-morrow  they  withdraw  it,  and 
both  the  offer  and  the  withdrawal  are  equally  without  assignable 
or  discoverable  reason.     Their  will  is  their  law,  but  if  there  be 


—  46  — 

such  a  thing,  their  law  is  chance.  They  seem  to  have  no  settled 
rules  in  either  their  feelings  or  their  actions,  no  defined  order  of 
character,  and,  therefore,  you  have  no  common  principles  on  which 
to  judge  them  or  by  which  to  hold  them.  You  feel  near  them, 
similarly  to  those  who  stand  around  an  eastern  Sultan's  throne — 
who  at  one  moment  bask  in  the  smiles  of  his  favor,  but  who  are 
in  hourly  fear  he  will  give  the  nod  which  shall  unsheath  the 
sword  of  the  executioner. 

Those  Avho  are  in  immediate  connection  with  the  class  that  I 
have  described,  live  in  constant  and  painful  alternation,  in  which 
there  is  no  ease,  or  certainly,  or  comfort;  in  which  life  is  made 
such  a  mortal  torture  as  scarcely  to  be  endured ;  in  which  family 
dependence  is  a  galling  yoke,  and  the  bread  of  toil  is  eaten  in  tears 
of  bitterness.  Servants  in  lands  of  liberty,  can  retreat,  they  can 
choose  their  masters — but  families,  what  can  they  do  ?  Remain 
and  suffer;  remain,  endure,  and  be  hopeless  and  helpless  victims; 
remain,  and  for  mere  existence  bear  whatever  those  who  rule  their 
existence  can  heap  upon  them;  remain  and  have  all  the  pangs  of 
martyrdom  and  none  of  its  honors.  We  cannot  always  choose  our 
lot,  nor  is  it  right  to  quarrel  with  the  lot  which  is  assigned  us;  but 
if  it  were  permitted  us,  there  are  surely  many  things  which  we 
would  prefer  to  constant  irritation  and  to  domestic  tyranny.  It 
were  better  to  scoop  a  cave  in  an  Arabian  desert,  and,  as  the  old 
hermits  did,  diet  on  herbs  and  water,  than  to  be  under  this  irrita- 
ble and  cruel  caprice,  though  we  should  have  robes  of  purple  and 
fare  sumptuously  every  day;  it  were  better  to  raise  a  tent  in  some 
woods  of  the  far  off  and  untrodden  west;  it  were  better  to  be 
amidst  the  wild  and  pathless  prairies,  and  to  take  the  red  man's 
fate,  to  have  freedom  and  peace,  and  communion  with  God,  amidst 
His  most  awful  solitudes  and  His  grandest  works,  than  to  be 
inmates  of  a  palace  in  which  ill  temper  were  the  presiding  spirit. 
Duty  might  command  us  to  bear,  but  inclination  would  never 
choose  it. 

I  have  thus  endeavored  to  point  out  a  few  broad  generalities. 

In  such  a  subject,  minuteness  were  impossible.  We  give  no 
rules  for  cure,  because  we  conceive  all  such  rules  inefficacious. 
Each  one  should  know  his  own  special  temptation,  and  if  he  is  at 
all  to  be  corrected,  from  himself  should  come  the  remedy. 

It  is  vain  to  give  rules  and  maxims;  they  are  of  no  account, 


—  47  — 

unless  there  is  an  inward  feeling  of  imperfection;  unless  there  is 
an  earnest,  a  heartfelt,  a  conscientious  spirit  of  sincerity;  if  these 
be  in  the  mind,  it  will  truly  discover  and  most  earnestly  apply  the 
very  best  means  of  moral  progression.  Still  it  is  right  for  us  to 
consider  a  few  of  the  excuses  which  are  alleged  for  ill  temper. 
And  when  faults  of  temper  are  at  all  admitted,  what  are  the 
excuses  pleaded?  Some  plead  natural  constitution — they  are 
betrayed,  when  they  design  it  not,  into  wrong  speaking  and  into 
wrong  doing.  Some  plead  bodily  illness  or  the  misfortunes  of 
life;  want  of  health  has  thrown  a  cloud  upon  their  spirits,  or  men 
have  not  dealt  well  with  them,  or  fortune  and  the  world  have  been 
rough  and  boisterous  on  their  course ;  some  plead  the  errors  of  their 
previous  training;  they  were  not  taught  better,  and  they  did  not 
see  better;  they  were  furnished  with  no  right  principles,  and  they 
saw  all  wrong  examples.  Some  plead  provocations  not  to  be 
resisted,  and  say  that  to  have  been  otherwise  than  they  are,  were 
to  have  been  more  than  human.  Some  unwilling  to  confess  any 
fault,  will  maintain  that  their  conduct  is  that  which  is  just  and 
necessary.  This  would,  no  doubt,  be  the  large  class,  when  they 
reason  \vith  men ;  we  hope  they  are  not  so,  when  they  reason  with 
their  conscience;  still,  at  times,  they  must  remember  that  although 
man  sees  only  the  outside  appearance,  God  judges  the  heart.  But 
as  to  these  or  any  other  excuses,  whilst  we  should  be  generous  in 
admitting  them  for  our  brethren,  we  should  be  cautious  in  taking 
them  to  ourselves. 

That  physical  constitution  is  at  the  root  of  many  of  our  faults, 
is  not  to  be  denied,  but  neither  is  it  to  be  denied  that  it  has  an 
intluence  on  much  of  our  excellence.  We  know  there  are  those 
in  earliest  youth,  whom  all  of  us  have  had  the  means  of  discern- 
ing, confiding,  faithful,  charitable,  ready  to  be  pleased,  unwilling 
to  find  fault;  whilst  others  have  been  sharp,  harsh,  unkind, 
watchful,  proud,  and  selfish.  And  seldom  has  it  been  that  the 
latter  nature  has  been  opposed  to  early  promise.  That  natural 
disposition  may  cause  moral  derangement  should  not  be  denied, 
neither  should  it  be  excluded  from  the  number  of  mitigating 
circumstances;  that  illness  may  depress,  and  misfortunes  vex  us, 
we  are  all  too  well  experienced  to  be  severe  on  those  who  have 
undergone  them  impatiently;  that  wrong  education  may  leave 
faults  which  shall  endure  to  the  latest  hours  of  life,  many  of  us 


—  48  — 

have  but  too  much  reason  to  lament,  and  these  faults  may  be  far 
more  sincerely  lamented  b}^  those  who  commit  them,  than  by 
those  who  condemn  them;  that  great  provocation — and  much 
there  certainly  is  in  life — demands  also  charitable  allowance,  we 
have  no  reason  and  no  wish  to  deny,  when  it  calls  forth  a  strong 
and  indignant  burst  of  passion. 

But  when  we  have  made  all  the  admission  that  justice 
demands  and  charity  can  grant,  some  serious  considerations 
remain,  after  all,  to  be  pondered.  In  what  way  do  we  use  these 
excuses?  How  often  do  we  advance  them  when  there  is  no 
ground  for  any  of  them,  when  there  is  no  illness,  no  adversity,  no 
evil  example,  no  evil  communication,  no  resistance;  when  everj^ 
word  and  will  is  law;  when  health,  and  prosperity,  and  pleasures, 
and  hopes,  and  friendship,  and  smiles  from  heaven  and  from 
men,  and  obsequious  attendants  are  all  about  us,  or  awaiting 
our  commands;  when  the  miseries  that  strike  others  down  have 
passed  over  us,  and  not  touched  us ;  when  death,  the  lot  of  all, 
as  yet  has  left  our  dwelling  full;  when  as  yet  the  destroying 
angel  has  never  waved  his  sword  over  us,  nor  pierced  our  hearts, 
nor  opened  the  sluices  of  our  tears;  how  often  then  are  we  in 
bitter  and  unhappy  moods,  when  there  seems  no  human  reason, 
but  an  infatuated  perverseness. 

And  though  all  these  excuses  in  part  were  true,  how  much  in 
our  self-love  do  we  over-color  them.  We  are  our  own  advocates, 
and  therefore  we  are  not  likely  to  be  just  or  severe  judges.  But 
though  they  were  entirely  true,  what  of  that?  Is  it  not  demanded 
of  a  moral  and  virtuous  man  to  overcome  temptation,  to  subdue 
difficulties?  Will  not  the  right-minded  man,  not  to  say  the 
Christian,  struggle  against  his  natural  infirmities,  nor  cease  until 
he  has  secured  a  victory?  If  we  were  to  act  on  all  our  merely 
natural  emotions,  moral  reasoning  must  be  put  out  of  question. 
Akin  to  the  brutes,  we  should  be  driven  by  the  force  of  impulse, 
and  to  this  necessity  we  can  neither  attach  praise  nor  censvire. 
We  call  not  the  gentleness  of  the  lamb  virtue,  nor  the  fierceness 
of  the  tiger  vice.  But  man  we  expect  to  have  a  control  over  his 
sensations;  we  expect  him  to  be  a  moral  being,  and  if  he  looks  to 
us,  not  to  reckon  the  wrong  he  has  done,  because  he  has  done  it 
in  accordance  with  his  sensations;  he  asks  us  in  point  of  fact  to 


—  49  — 

strip  him  of  his  humanity.  Similar  reasoning  applies  to  the 
other  causes  alleged,  but  not  so  directly. 

We  cannot  here  go  into  the  distinctions;  enough  is  it  to  say 
that  we  have  seen  them  frequently  overcome,  and  what  has  been 
done  hitherto  can  be  done  again.  What  men  ought  to  do  they 
can  do,  and  all  excuses  to  the  contrary  are  but  so  many  equivo- 
cations and  sophistries  for  self-will. 

It  has  been  the  misfortune  of  many  to  have  received  a  false 
training,  and  to  have  witnessed  unseemly  examples,  but  they 
have  cast  off  the  incubus  of  their  education  and  been  good  in 
spite  of  their  examples.  It  has  been  the  misfortune  of  many  to 
lie  long  and  low  in  sickness,  but  it  has  been  their  glory  and  their 
blessing  to  be  meek  through  all  their  pains.  There  have  been 
those  who  have  come  to  a  poor  and  dependent  old  age,  and  yet 
preserved  the  affections  of  their  hearts  and  the  light  of  their 
spirits;  there  have  been  those  who  have  seen  their  best  expecta- 
tions fail  on  the  point  of  fulfillment,  and  their  best  contrived 
plans  turned  into  vanity,  and  their  honest  exertions  defeated,  and 
nothing  but  losses,  struggles,  and  fears  made  the  daily  and  nightly 
companions  of  their  thoughts,  who  have  yet  well  endured  their  lot 
and  valiantly  fought  their  fight,  who  could  shake  off  the  dark 
fiend  that  haunts  the  afflicted,  who  would  not  hear  the  voice  of 
the  tempter,  and  cursed  neither  God  nor  man.  There  have  been 
those  who,  in  the  teeth  of  the  most  xdolent  provocation,  thought 
forbearance  more  noble  than  contest;  who  learned  and  practiced 
the  magnanimous  lesson,  "not  to  return  e\'il  for  evil,"  and  who 
preferred  rather  to  endure  injury  than  to  inflict  it;  who  would 
have  chosen  rather  to  pray  with  Christ  on  his  cross  than  to  reign 
with  the  wrongdoer  on  his  throne.  All  these  excuses  are  futile 
and  unsound;  we  must  not  deceive  ourselves  by  them.  Evil 
tempers  can  be  corrected,  and  they  ought. 

They  can  be  corrected.  Who  is  he  that  says,  he  cannot  help 
being  angry,  or  sullen,  or  peensh?  I  tell  him  he  deceives  him- 
self. We  constantly  avoid  doing  so,  when  our  interest  or  decorum 
requires  it,  when  we  feel  near  those  whom  we  know  are  not  bound 
to  bear  our  whims,  or  who  will  resent  them  to  our  injury;  but 
what  strangers  will  not  endure  we  cast  upon  our  friends.  That 
temper  can  be  corrected,  the  world  proves  by  thousands  of  in- 
stances.    There  have  been  those  who  set  out  in  life  with  being 


—  50  — 

violent,  peevish,  discontented,  irritable,  and  capricious,  whom 
thought,  reflection,  effort,  not  to  speak  of  piety,  have  rendered,  as 
they  became  mature,  meek,  peaceful,  loving,  generous,  forbearing, 
tranquil,  and  consistent.  It  is  a  glorious  achievement,  and 
blessed  is  he  who  attains  it. 

But  taking  the  argument  to  lower  ground,  which  I  do  unwill- 
ingly, you  continually  see  men  controlling  their  emotions,  when 
their  interest  commands  it.  Observe  the  man  who  wants  assist- 
ance, who  looks  for  patronage,  how  well,  as  he  perceives  coldness, 
does  he  crush  the  vexation  that  rises  in  his  throat,  and  stifle  the 
indignation  that  burns  for  expression.  How  will  the  most  proud 
and  lofty  descend  from  their  high  position,  and  lay  aside  their 
ordinary  bearing,  to  earn  a  suffrage  from  the  meanest  kind. 
And  surely  those  who  hang  around  us  in  life,  those  who  lean  on 
us,  or  on  whom  we  lean  through  our  pilgrimage,  to  whom  our 
accents  and  our  deeds  are  worlds,  to  whom  a  word  may  shoot  a 
pang  worse  than  the  stroke  of  death,  surely  I  say,  if  we  can  do  so 
much  for  interest,  we  can  do  something  for  goodness  and  for 
gratitude.  And  in  all  civilized  intercourse,  how  perfectly  do  we 
see  it  ourselves  to  be  the  recognized  law  of  decorum,  and  if  we 
have  not  universally  good  feelings,  we  have  generally,  at  least, 
good  manners.  This  may  be  hypocrisy,  but  it  ought  to  be  sin- 
cerity, and  we  trust  it  is. 

If,  then,  we  can  make  our  faces  to  shine  on  strangers,  why 
darken  them  on  those  who  should  be  dear  to  us  ?  Is  it  that  we 
have  so  squandered  our  smiles  abroad,  that  we  have  only  frowns 
to  carry  home?  Is  it  that  while  out  in  the  world,  we  have  been 
so  prodigal  of  good  temper,  that  we  have  but  our  ill  humors  with 
which  to  cloud  our  firesides  ?  Is  it,  that  it  requires  often  but  a 
mere  passing  guest  to  enter,  while  we  are  speaking  daggers  to 
beings  who  are  nearest  to  us  in  life,  to  change  our  tone,  to  give  us 
perfect  self-command,  that  we  cannot  do  for  love,  what  we  do  for 
appearance  ?     Brethren,  we  can  rule  our  tempers,  and  we  ought. 


51  — 


THE  EVILS  WHICH  FLOW  FROM  UNRESTRAINED  PASSIONS. 

[blair.] 

When  man  revolted  from  his  Maker,  his  passions  rebelled 
against  himself,  and  from  being  originally  the  ministers  of  reason, 
have  become  the  tyrants  of  the  soul.  Hence,  in  treating  of  this 
subject,  two  things  may  be  assumed  as  principles:  first,  that, 
through  the  present  weakness  of  the  understanding,  our  passions 
are  often  directed  towards  improper  objects;  and  next,  that  even 
when  their  direction  is  just,  and  their  objects  are  innocent,  they 
perpetually  tend  to  run  into  excess;  they  always  hurry  us  towards 
their  gratification,  with  a  blind  and  dangerous  impetuosity.  On 
these  two  points,  then,  turns  the  whole  government  of  our  pas- 
sions: first,  to  ascertain  the  proper  object  of  their  pursuit:  and 
next,  to  restrain  them  in  that  pursuit,  when  they  would  carry  us 
beyond  the  bounds  of  reason.  If  there  is  any  passion  which 
intrudes  itself  unseasonably  into  our  mind,  which  darkens  and 
troubles  our  judgment,  or  habitually  discomposes  our  temper, 
which  unfits  us  for  properly  discharging  the  duties,  or  disqualifies 
us  for  cheerfully  enjoying  the  comforts  of  life,  we  may  certainly 
conclude  it  to  have  gained  a  dangerous  ascendant.  The  great 
object  w^hich  we  ought  to  propose  to  ourselves  is,  to  acquire  a  firm 
and  steadfast  mind,  which  the  infatuation  of  passions  shall  not 
seduce  nor  its  violence  shake;  which,  resting  on  fixed  principles, 
shall,  in  the  midst  of  contending  emotions,  remain  free,  and  mas- 
ter of  itself;  able  to  listen  calmly  to  the  voice  of  conscience,  and 
prepared  to  obey  its  dictates  without  hesitation. 

To  obtain,  if  possible,  such  command  of  passion  is  one  of  the 
highest  attainments  of  the  rational  nature.  Arguments  to  show 
its  importance  crowd  upon  us  from  every  quarter.  If  there  be 
any  fertile  source  of  mischief  to  human  life,  it  is,  beyond  doubt, 
the  misrule  of  passion.  It  is  this  which  poisons  the  enjoyment 
of  individuals,  overturns  the  order  of  societ}',  and  strews  the  path 
of  life  with  so  many  miseries,  as  to  render  it,  indeed,  the  vale  of 
tears.  All  those  great  scenes  of  public  calamity,  which  we 
behold  with  astonishment  and  horror,  have  originated  from  the 
source  of  violent  passions.  These  have  overspread  the  earth  with 
bloodshed.     These  have  pointed  the  assassin's  dagger  and  filled 


—  52  — 

tlie  poisoned  bowls.  These,  in  every  age,  have  furnished  too 
copious  materials  for  the  orator's  pathetic  declamations,  and  for 
the  poet's  tragical  song. 

When  from  public  life  we  descend  to  private  conduct,  though 
passion  operates  not  there  in  so  wide  and  destructive  a  sphere,  we 
shall  find  its  influence  to  be  no  less  baneful.  I  need  not  mention 
the  black  and  fierce  passions,  such  as  envy,  jealousy,  and  re- 
venge, whose  effects  are  obviously  noxious,  and  whose  agitations 
are  immediate  misery.  But  take  any  of  the  licentious  kind. 
Suppose  it  to  have  unlimited  scope;  trace  it  through  its  course; 
and  we  shall  find  that  gradually,  as  it  rises,  it  taints  the  sound- 
ness and  troubles  the  peace  of  his  mind  over  whom  it  reigns; 
that,  in  its  progress,  it  engages  him  in  pursuits  which  are  marked 
either  with  danger  or  with  shame;  that,  in  the  end,  it  wastes  his 
fortune,  destroys  his  health,  or  debases  his  character;  and  aggra- 
vates all  the  miseries  in  which  it  has  involved  him,  with  the  con- 
cluding pangs  of  bitter  remorse.  Through  all  the  stages  of  this 
fatal  course,  how  many  have  heretofore  run?  What  multitudes 
do  we  daily  behold  pursuing  it,  with  blind  and  headlong  steps. 


TOLERANCE. 

[chesterfield.] 

Remember  that  errors  and  mistakes,  however  gross  in  matters 
of  opinion,  if  they  are  sincere,  are  to  be  pitied,  but  not  punished 
nor  laughed  at.  The  blindness  of  the  understanding  is  as  much 
to  be  pitied  as  the  blindness  of  the  eyes;  and  there  is  neither  jest 
nor  guilt  in  a  man  losing  his  way  in  either  case.  Charity  bids 
us  set  him  right  if  we  can  by  arguments  and  persuasions;  but 
charity,  at  the  same  time,  forbids  either  to  punish  or  ridicule  his 
misfortunes.  Every  man's  reason  is  and  must  be  his  guide;  and 
I  may  as  well  expect  that  every  man  should  be  of  my  size  and 
complexion  as  that  he  should  reason  just  as  I  do. 

Every  man  seeks  for  truth,  but  God  only  knows  who  has  found 
it.  It  is,  therefore,  as  unjust  to  persecute  as  it  is  absurd  to  ridi- 
cule people  for  their  several  opinions,  which  they  cannot  help 
entertaining  upon  the  conviction  of  their  reason.  It  is  the  man 
who  tells,  or  who  acts  a  lie,  that  is  guilty,  and  not  he  who  hon- 
estly and  sincerely  believes  the  lie. 


—  53  - 


GOOD-BREEDING. 

[chesterfield.] 

Civility  and  good-breeding  are  generally  thought,  and  often 
used,  as  synonymous  terms,  but  are  by  no  means  so. 

Good-breeding  necessarily  implies  civility,  but  ci^dlity  does  not 
reciprocally  imply  good-breeding.  The  former  has  its  intrinsic 
weight  and  value,  which  the  latter  always  adorns,  and  often 
doubles,  by  its  workmanship.  To  sacrifice  one's  own  self-love  to 
other  people's  is  a  short,  but  I  believe,  a  true  definition  of  civility; 
to  do  it  with  ease,  propriety,  and  grace,  is  good-breeding.  The 
one  is  the  result  of  good  nature;  the  other  of  good  sense,  joined  to 
experience,  observation,  and  attention. 

A  plowman  will  be  civil,  if  he  is  good  natured,  but  cannot  be 
well-bred.  A  courtier  will  be  well-bred,  though  perhaps  without 
good  nature,  if  he  has  but  good  sense.  Flattery  is  the  disgrace  of 
good-breeding,  as  brutality  often  is  of  truth  and  sincerity.  Good- 
breeding  is  the  middle  point  between  these  two  odious  extremes. 
Ceremony  is  the  superstition  of  good-breeding,  as  well  as  of  reli- 
gion; but  yet,  being  an  outwork  to  both,  should  not  be  absolutely 
demolished.  It  is  always  to  a  certain  degree  to  be  complied 
Avith,  though  despised,  by  those  who  think,  because  admired  and 
respected  by  those  who  do  not. 

Good-breeding,  like  charity,  not  only  covers  a  multitude  of 
faults,  but,  to  a  certain  degree,  supplies  the  want  of  some  virtue. 
In  the  common  intercourse  of  life,  it  acts  good  nature,  and  often 
does  what  good  nature  will  not  always  do;  it  keeps  both  wits  and 
fools  within  the  bounds  of  decency,  which  the  former  are  too  apt 
to  transgress,  and  which  the  latter  never  know. 

I  would  not  be  misapprehended  and  supposed  to  recommend 
good-breeding,  thus  profaned  and  prostituted  to  the  purposes  of 
guilt  and  perfidy;  but  I  think  I  may  justly  infer  from  it,  to  what 
a  degree  the  accomplishment  of  good-breeding  must  adorn  and 
enforce  virtue  and  truth,  when  it  can  thus  soften  the  outrages  and 
deformity  of  Adce  and  falsehood. 

I  observe  with  concern,  that  it  is  the  fashion  for  our  youth  of 
both  sexes  to  brand  good-breeding  with  the  name  of  ceremony 
and  formality.     As  such,  they  ridicule  and  explode  it,  and  adopt 


—  54  — 

in  its  stead  an  offensive  carelessness  and  inattention,  to  the  dimin- 
ution, I  Avill  venture  to  say,  even  of  their  own  pleasures,  if  they 
know  what  true  pleasures  are. 

Love  and  friendship  necessarily  produces,  and  justly  authorize 
familiarity;  but  then  good-breeding  must  mark  out  its  bounds, 
and  thus  far  shalt  thou  go,  and  no  further;  for  I  have  known  many 
a  passion  and  many  a  friendship  degraded,  weakened,  and  at  last, 
if  I  may  use  the  expression,  wholly  slatterned  away,  by  an  un- 
guarded and  illiberal  familiarity.  Nor  is  good-breeding  less  the 
ornament  and  cement  of  common  social  life;  it  connects,  it 
endears,  and  at  the  same  time  that  it  indulges  the  just  liberty, 
restrains  that  indecent  licentiousness  of  conversation,  which  alien- 
ates and  provokes.  Great  talents  make  a  man  famous,  great 
merit  makes  him  respected,  and  great  learning  makes  him 
esteemed;  but  good-breeding  alone  can  make  him  loved.  Upon 
the  whole,  though  good-breeding  cannot,  strictly  speaking,  be 
called  a  virtue,  yet  it  is  productive  of  so  many  good  effects,  that 
in  my  opinion,  it  may  justly  be  reckoned  more  than  a  mere  accom- 
plishment. 


MANNERS   AND    MORALS. 

[SAMUEL   SMILES.] 

Dr.  Johnson  has  said  that  the  habit  of  looking  at  the  best  side 
of  a  thing  is  worth  more  to  a  man  than  a  thousand  pounds  a  year. 
And  we  possess  the  power,  to  a  great  extent,  of  so  exercising  the 
will  as  to  direct  the  thought  upon  objects  calculated  to  yield  hap- 
piness and  improvement  rather  than  their  opposites. 

In  this  way  the  habit  of  happy  thought  may  be  made  to  spring 
up  like  any  other  habit. 

And  to  bring  up  men  or  women  with  a  genial  nature  of  this 
sort,  a  good  temper,  and  a  happy  frame  of  mind,  is,  perhaps,  of 
even  more  importance  in  many  cases  than  to  perfect  them  in 
much  knowledge  and  many  accomplishments. 

As  daylight  can  be  seen  through  very  small  holes,  so  little 
things  illustrate  a  person's  character.  Indeed,  character  consists 
in  little  acts,  well  and  honorably  performed;  daily  life  being  the 
(5[uarry  from  which  we  build  up  and  rough-hew  the  habits  which 
form  it. 


One  of  the  most  marked  tests  of  character  is  the  manner  in 
which  we  conduct  ourselves  towards  others.  A  graceful  behavior 
towards  superiors,  inferiors,  and  equals  is  a  constant  source  of 
pleasure.  It  pleases  others  because  it  indicates  respect  for  their 
personalities,  but  it  gives  tenfold  more  pleasure  to  ourselves. 
Every  man  may,  to  a  large  extent,  be  a  self-educator  in  good 
behavior,  as  in  everything  else;  he  can  be  civil  and  kind,  if  he 
will,  though  he  have  not  a  penny  in  his  purse. 

Gentleness  in  society  is  like  the  silent  influence  of  light,  which 
gives  color  to  all  nature;  it  is  far  more  powerful  than  loudness  or 
force  and  far  more  fruitful.  It  pushes  its  way  quietly  and  per- 
sistently, like  the  tiniest  daffodil  in  spring,  which  raises  the  clod 
and  thrusts  it  aside  by  the  simple  persistency  of  growing.  Even 
a  kind  look  will  give  pleasure  and  confer  happiness.  In  one  of 
Robertson  Brighton's  letters  he  tells  of  a  lady  who  related  to  him 
the  delight,  the  tears  of  gratitude,  which  she  had  witnessed  in  a 
poor  girl  to  whom,  in  passing,  "  I  gave  a  kind  look  on  going  out  of 
church  on  Sunday."  What  a  lesson!  How  cheaply  happiness 
can  be  given!  What  opportunities  we  miss  of  doing  an  angel's 
work!  I  remember  doing  it,  full  of  sad  feelings,  passing  on,  and 
thinking  no  more  about  it,  and  it  gave  an  hour's  sunshine  to  a 
human  life  and  lightened  the  load  of  life  to  a  human  heart  for  a 
time. 

Morals  and  manners,  which  give  color  to  life,  are  of  much 
greater  importance  than  laws,  which  are  but  their  manifestations. 
The  law  touches  us  here  and  there,  but  manners  are  about  us 
everywhere,  pervading  society  like  the  air  we  breathe.  Good  man- 
ners, as  we  call  them,  are  neither  more  nor  less  than  good  beha- 
vior; consisting  of  courtesy  and  kindness;  benevolence  being  the 
preponderating  element  in  all  kinds  of  mutually  beneficial  and 
pleasant  intercourse  amongst  human  beings. 

"Ci^dlity,"  said  Lady  Montague,  "  costs  nothing  and  buys  every-* 
thing." 

The  cheapest  of  all  things  is  kindness,  its  exercise  requiring  the 
least  possible  trouble  and  self-sacrifice. 

"  Win  hearts,"  said  Burleigh  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  "  and  you  have 
all  men's  hearts  and  purses." 

If  we  would  only  let  nature  act  kindly,  free  from  aflFectation  arid 


—  56  — 

artifice,  the  results  on  social  good  humor  and  happiness  would  "be 
incalculable. 

The  little  courtesies  which  form  the  small  change  of  life,  may 
separately  appear  of  little  intrinsic  value,  but  they  acquire  their 
importance  from  repetition  and  accumulation.  They  are  like  the 
spare  minutes,  or  the  groat  a  day,  which  proverbially  produce  such 
momentous  results  in  the  course  of  a  twelvemonth,  or  in  a  life 
time. 

Manners  are  the  ornament  of  action,  and  there  is  a  way  of 
speaking  a  kind  word,  or  of  doing  a  kind  thing,  which  greatly 
enhances  its  value. 

What  seems  to  be  done  with  a  grudge,  or  as  an  act  of  conde- 
scension, is  scarcely  accepted  as  a  favor.  Yet  there  are  men  who 
pride  themselves  upon  their  gruffness,  and  though  they  may  pos- 
sess \artue  and  capacity,  their  manner  is  often  such  as  to  render 
them  almost  insupportable. 

It  is  difficult  to  like  a  man  who,  though  he  may  not  pull  your 
nose  habituall}',  wounds  your  self-respect,  and  takes  a  pride  in 
saying  disagreeable  things  to  3'ou.  There  are  others  who  are 
dreadfully  condescending,  and  cannot  avoid  seizing  upon  every 
small  opportunity  of  making  their  greatness  felt. 

When  Abernethy  was  canvassing  for  the  office  of  Surgeon  to 
St.  Bartholomew's  Hospital,  he  called  upon  such  a  person — a 
rich  grocer,  one  of  the  Governors.  The  great  man  behind  the 
counter,  seeing  the  great  surgeon  enter,  immediately  assumed  the 
grand  air  towards  the  supposed  suppliant  for  his  vote.  "  I  pre- 
sume, sir,  you  want  my  vote  and  interest  at  this  momentous  epoch 
of  your  life." 

Abernethy,  who  hated  humbugs,  and  felt  nettled  at  the  tone, 
replied:  "  No,  I  don't;  I  want  a  pennyworth  of  figs;  come,  look 
sharp,  and  wrap  them  up;  I  want  to  be  off." 

The  cultivation  of  manners — though  in  excess  it  is  foppish  and 
foolish — is  highly  necessary  in  a  person  who  has  occasion  to  nego- 
tiate with  others  in  matters  of  business.  Affability  and  good 
breeding  may  even  be  regarded  as  essential  to  the  success  of  a 
man  in  any  eminent  station  and  enlarged  sphere  of  life;  for  the 
want  of  it  has  not  unfrequently  been  found  in  a  great  measure  to 
neutralize  the  result  of  much  industry,  integrity,  and  honesty  of 
character.     There  are,  no  doubt,  a  few  strong  tolerant   minds 


which  can  bear  with  defects  and  angularities  of  manners,  and 
look  only  to  the  more  genuine  qualities;  but  the  world  at  large  is 
not  so  forbearant,  and  cannot  help  forming  its  judgments  and 
likings  mainly  according  to  outward  conduct. 

Another  mode  of  displaying  true  politeness  is  consideration  for 
the  opinions  of  others.  It  has  been  said  of  dogmatism,  that  it  is 
only  puppyism  come  to  its  full  growth;  and  certainly  the  worst 
form  this  quality  can  assume  is  that  of  opinionativeness  and 
arrogance. 

Let  men  agree  to  differ,  and  when  they  do  differ,  bear  and  for- 
bear. Principles  and  opinions  may  be  maintained  with  perfect 
suavity,  without  coming  to  blows  or  uttering  hard  words;  and 
there  are  circumstances  in  which  words  are  blows,  and  inflict 
wounds  far  less  easy  to  heal.  As  bearing  upon  this  point,  we 
quote  an  instructive  little  parable  spoken  some  time  since  by  an 
itinerant  preacher  of  the  Evangelical  Alliance  on  the  borders  of 
Wales.  ''  As  I  w^as  going  to  the  hills,"  said  he,  "  early  one  misty 
morning,  I  saw  something  mo^'ing  on  a  mountain  side  so  strange 
looking  that  I  took  it  for  a  monster.  When  I  came  nearer  to  it  I 
found  it  was  a  man.  When  I  came  up  to  him  I  found  he  was  my 
brother." 

The  inbred  politeness  which  springs  fromright-heartedness  and 
kindly  feelings  is  of  no  exclusive  rank  or  station.  The  mechanic 
who  works  at  the  bench  may  possess  it,  as  well  as  the  clergyman 
or  the  peer.  It  is  by  no  means  a  necessary  condition  of  labor 
that  it  should,  in  any  respect,  be  either  rough  or  coarse.  The 
politeness  and  refinement  which  distinguish  all  classes  of  the 
people  in  many  continental  countries  show  that  those  qualities 
might  become  ours,  too — as  doubtless  they  will  become  with 
increased  culture  and  more  general  social  intercourse — without 
sacrificing  any  of  our  more  genuine  qualities  as  men.  From  the 
highest  to  the  lowest,  the  richest  to  the  poorest,  to  no  rank  or  con- 
dition in  life  has  nature  denied  her  highest  boon — the  great  heart. 
There  never  yet  existed  a  gentleman  but  was  lord  of  a  great 
heart ;  and  this  may  exhibit  itself  under  the  hodden  gray  of  the 
peasant  as  well  as  under  the  laced  coat  of  the  noble.  Robert 
Burns  was  once  taken  to  task  by  a  young  Edinburgh  blood,  with 
whom  he  was  walking,  for  recognizing  an  honest  farmer  in  the 
open  street.     "  Why,  you  fantastic  gomeral,"  exclaimed  Burns, 


—  58  — 

"  it  was  not  the  great  coat,  the  scone  bonnet,  and  the  saundersboot 
hose  that  I  spoke  to,  but  the  man  that  was  in  them;  and  the  man, 
sir,  for  true  worth,  would  weigh  down  you  and  me,  and  ten  more 
such,  any  day."  There  may  be  a  homeliness  in  externals  which 
may  seem  vulgar  to  those  who  cannot  discern  the  heart  beneath, 
but,  to  the  right-minded,  character  will  always  have  its  clear 
insignia. 


LYING. 
[chesterfield.] 

There  is  one  vice  into  which  people  of  good  education,  and,  in 
the  main  of  good  principles,  sometimes  fall,  from  mistaken  notions 
of  skill,  dexterity,  and  self-defense:  I  mean  lying;  though  it  is 
inseparably  attended  with  more  infamy  and  loss  than  any  other. 
The  prudence  and  necessity  of  concealing  the  truth,  insensibly 
seduces  people  to  violate  it.  It  is  the  only  art  of  mean  capacities, 
and  the  only  refuge  of  mean  spirits.  Whereas  concealing  the 
truth,  upon  proper  occasions,  is  as  prudent  and  as  innocent,  as 
telling  a  lie,  upon  any  occasion,  is  infamous  and  foolish.  I  will 
state  you  a  case  in  your  own  department: 

Suppose  you  are  employed  at  a  foreign  court,  and  that  the 
Minister  of  that  court  is  absurd  or  impertinent  enough  to  ask  you 
what  your  instructions  are;  will  you  tell  him  a  lie,  which,  as  soon 
as  found  out  (and  found  out  it  certainly  will  be)  must  destroy 
your  credit,  blast  your  character,  and  render  you  useless  there? 
No.  Will  you  tell  him  the  truth  then,  and  betray  your  trust? 
As  certainly  no.  But  you  will  answer  with  firmness,  that  you 
are  surprised  at  such  a  question;  that  you  are  persuaded  he  does 
not  expect  an  answer  to  it;  but  that  at  all  events,  he  certainly 
will  not  have  one.  Such  an  answer  will  give  him  confidence  in 
you;  he  will  conceive  an  opinion  of  your  veracity,  of  which 
opinion  you  may  afterwards  make  very  honest  and  fair  advan- 
tages. But  if,  in  negotiations,  you  are  looked  upon  as  a  liar  and 
a  trickster,  no  confidence  will  be  placed  in  you,  nothing  will  be 
communicated  to  you,  you  will  be  in  the  situation  of  a  man  who 
has  been  burnt  in  the  cheek,  and  who,  from  that  mark,  cannot 
afterwards  get  an  honest  livelihood  if  he  would,  but  must  continue 
a  thief. 


—  59  — 

Lord  Bacon,  very  justly,  makes  a  distinction  between  simula- 
tion and  dissimulation;  and  allows  the  latter  rather  than  the 
former,  but  still  observes  that  they  are  the  weaker  sort  of  politi- 
cians who  have  recourse  to  either. 

A  man  who  has  strength  of  mind,  and  strength  of  parts,  wants 
neither  of  them.  "Certainly,"  says  he,  "the  ablest  men  that 
ever  were  have  all  had  an  openness  and  frankness  of  dealing, 
and  a  name  of  certainty  and  veracity;  but,  then,  they  were  like 
horses  well  managed,  for  they  could  tell,  passing  well,  when  to 
stop,  or  turn;  and  at  such  times  as  they  thought  the  case,  indeed, 
required  some  dissimulation,  if  then  they  used  it,  it  came  to  pass, 
that  the  former  opinion  spread  abroad  of  their  good  faith  and 
clearness  of  dealing  made  them  almost  invisible." 

There  are  people  who  indulge  themselves  in  a  sort  of  Ij^ng, 
which  they  reckon  innocent,  and  which  in  one  sense  is  so;  for  it 
hurts  nobody  but  themselves. 

This  sort  of  lying  is  the  spurious  offspring  of  vanity,  begotten 
upon  folly;  these  people  deal  in  the  marvelous;  they  have  seen 
other  things  which  they  really  never  saw,  though  they  did  exist, 
only  because  they  were  thought  worth  seeing.  Has  anything 
remarkable  been  said  or  done  in  any  place,  or  in  any  company, 
they  immediately  present  and  declare  themselves  eye  or  ear- 
witness  of  it.  They  have  done  feats  themselves,  unattempted,  or 
at  least  unperformed,  by  others.  They  are  always  the  heroes  of 
their  own  fables,  and  think  that  they  gain  consideration,  at  least 
attract  attention,  by  it.  Whereas,  in  truth,  all  they  get  is  ridicule 
and  contempt,  not  without  a  good  degree  of  distrust;  for  one  must 
naturally  conclude,  that  he  who  will  tell  any  lie  from  idle  vanity 
will  not  scruple  telling  a  greater  for  interest. 

Had  I  really  seen  anything  so  very  extraordinary  as  to  be 
almost  incredible,  I  would  keep  it  to  myself,  rather  than,  by  telling 
it,  give  any  one  body  room  to  doubt  for  one  minute  of  my  veracity. 

It  is  most  certain,  that  the  reputation  of  chastity  is  not  so  nec- 
essary for  a  woman,  as  that  of  veracity  is  for  a  man,  and  with 
reason;  for  it  is  possible  for  a  woman  to  be  virtuous,  though  not 
strictly  chaste,  but  it  is  not  possible  for  a  man  to  be  virtuous  with- 
out strict  veracity.  The  slips  of  the  poor  women  are  sometimes 
mere  bodily  frailties;  but  a  lie  in  a  man  is  a  vice  of  the  mind  and 
of  the  heart.     For  God's  sake,  be  scrupulously  jealous  of  the  pu- 


—  60  — 

rity  of  your  moral  character!  Keep  it  immaculate,  unblemished, 
unsullied;  and  it  will  be  unsuspected. 

Defamation  and  calumny  never  attack,  where  there  is  no 
weak  place;  they  magnify,  but  they  do  not  create.  *  *  *  I 
really  know  nothing  more  criminal,  more  mean,  and  more  ridic- 
ulous, than  lying.  It  is  the  production  either  of  malice,  or  cow- 
ardice, or  vanity;  and  generally  misses  of  its  aim  in  every  one  of 
these  views;  for  lies  are  always  detected  sooner  or  later.  If  I  tell 
a  malicious  lie,  in  order  to  affect  any  man's  fortune  or  character, 
I  may  indeed  injure  him  for  some  time;  but  I  shall  be  sure  to  be 
the  greatest  sufferer  myself  at  last;  for  as  soon  as  ever  I  am 
detected  (and  detected  I  most  certainly  shall  be),  I  am  blasted 
for  the  infamous  attempt;  and  whatever  is  said  afterwards  to  the 
disadvantage  of  that  person,  however  true,  passes  for  calumny. 
If  I  lie  or  equivocate  (for  it  is  the  same  thing),  in  order  to  excuse 
myself  for  something  I  have  said  or  done,  and  to  avoid  the  dan- 
ger or  shame  that  I  apprehend  from  it,  I  discover  at  once  my  fear, 
as  well  as  my  falsehood;  and  only  increase  instead  of  avoiding 
the  danger  and  the  shame;  I  show  myself  to  be  the  lowest  and 
the  meanest  of  mankind,  and  am  sure  to  be  always  treated  as 
such. 

Fear,  instead  of  avoiding  invites  danger;  for  concealed  cowards 
will  insult  known  ones. 

If  one  has  had  the  misfortune  to  be  in  the  wrong,  there  is  some- 
thing noble  in  frankly  owning  it.  It  is  the  only  way  of  atoning 
for  it,  and  the  only  way  of  being  forgiven. 

Equivocating,  evading,  or  shuffling,  in  order  to  remove  a  present 
danger  or  inconvenience,  is  something  so  mean,  and  betrays  so 
much  fear,  that  whoever  practices  them  always  deserves  to  be  and 
often  will  be  kicked.  There  is  another  sort  of  lies,  inoffensive 
enough  in  themselves  but  wonderfully  ridiculous;  I  mean  those 
lies  which  a  mistaken  vanity  suggests,  that  defeat  the  very  end 
for  which  they  are  calculated,  and  terminate  in  the  humiliation 
and  confusion  of  their  author,  who  is  sure  to  be  detected.  These 
are  chiefly  narrative  and  historical  lies,  all  intended  to  do  infinite 
honor  to  their  author. 

He  is  always  the  hero  of  his  own  romances;  he  has  been  in 
dangers  from  which  nobody  but  himself  ever  escapes;  he  has 
seen  with  his  own  eyes,  whatever  other  people  have  heard  or  read 


—  61  — 

of;  he  has  had  more  bonnes  fortunes  than  any  one  else,  and  has 
ridden  by  more  mile-posts  in  one  day  than  ever  courier  went  in 
two. 

He  is  soon  discovered,  and  as  soon  becomes  the  object  of  uni- 
versal contempt  and  ridicule. 

Remember,  then,  as  long  as  you  Hve,  that  nothing  but  strict 
truth  can  carry  you  through  the  world,  mth  either  your  confi- 
dence or  your  honor  unwounded. 

It  is  not  only  your  duty,  but  your  interest;  as  a  proof  of  which 
you  may  always  observe,  that  the  greatest  fools  are  the  greatest 
liars. 

For  my  own  part,  I  judge  of  every  man's  truth  by  his  degree  of 
understanding. 


FRIENDSHIP. 

[chesterfield.] 

People  of  your  age  have,  commonly,  an  unguarded  frankness 
about  them,  which  makes  them  the  easy  prey  and  bubbles  of  the 
artful  and  the  experienced;  they  look  upon  every  knave  or  fool 
who  tells  them  that  he  is  their  friend,  to  be  really  so;  and  pay 
that  profession  of  simulated  friendship,  with  an  indiscreet  and 
unbounded  confidence,  always  to  their  loss,  often  to  their  ruin. 
Beware,  therefore,  now  that  you  are  coming  into  the  world,  of  these 
proffered  friendships.  Receive  them  with  great  civility,  but  with 
great  incredulity  too,  and  pay  them  with  compliments  but  not  with 
confidence. 

Do  not  let  your  vanity  and  self-love  make  you  suppose  that  peo- 
ple become  your  friends  at  first  sight,  or  even  upon  a  short  acquaint- 
ance. Real  friendship  is  a  slow  grower,  and  never  thrives,  unless 
ingrafted  upon  a  stock  of  known  and  reciprocal  merit. 

There  is  another  kind  of  nominal  friendship  among  young  peo- 
ple, which  is  warm  for  the  time,  but,  by  good  luck,  of  short  dura- 
tion. 

This  friendship  is  hastily  produced,  by  their  being  accidentally 
thrown  together,  and  pursuing  the  same  course  of  riot  and  de- 
bauchery. A  fine  friendship,  truly!  and  well  cemented  by  drunk- 
enness and  lewdness.     It  should  rather  be  called  a  conspiracy 


—  62  — 

against  morals  and  good  manners,  and  be  punished  as  such  by  the 
civil  magistrate. 

However,  they  have  the  impudence  and  the  folly  to  call  this 
confederacy  a  friendship. 

Remember  to  make  a  great  difference  between  companions  and 
friends;  for  a  very  complaisant  and  agreeable  companion  may, 
and  often  does,  prove  a  very  improper  and  a  very  dangerous  friend. 
People  will  in  a  great  degree,  and  not  without  reason,  form  their 
opinion  of  you  upon  that  which  they  have  of  your  friends;  and 
there  is  a  Spanish  proverb,  which  says  very  justly,  "  Tell  me  whom 
you  live  with,  and  I  will  tell  you  who  you  are." 

One  may  fairly  suppose  that  a  man  who  makes  a  knave  or  a 
fool  his  friend  has  something  very  bad  to  do  or  conceal.  But  at 
the  same  time  that  you  carefully  decline  the  friendship  of  knaves 
and  fools,  if  it  can  be  called  friendship,  there  is  no  occasion  to 
make  either  of  them  your  enemies,  wantonly  and  unprovoked, 
for  they  are  numerous  bodies,  and  I  would  rather  choose  a  secure 
neutrality  than  alliance  or  war  with  either  of  them.  You  may 
be  a  declared  enemy  to  their  views  and  follies  without  being 
marked  out  by  them  as  a  personal  one.  Their  enmity  is  the  next 
dangerous  thing  to  their  friendship. 

Have  a  real  reserve  with  almost  everybody,  and  have  a  seeming 
reserve  with  almost  nobody;  for  it  is  very  disagreeable  to  seem 
reserved,  and  very  dangerous  not  to  be  so.  Few  people  find  the 
medium;  many  are  ridiculously  mysterious  and  reserved  upon 
trifles,  and  many  imprudently  communicative  of  all  they  know. 
*  *  *  I  must  be  first  well  acquainted  with  my  folks;  I  will 
have  no  friend  who  is  void  of  sentiment  merely  because  he  has 
wit,  nor  will  I  have  a  sentimental  friend  who  wants  common 
sense.  There  must  be  sentiment  on  both  sides  to  form  a  friend- 
ship, but  there  must  be  sense  on  both  sides  to  carry  it  on. 


63  — 


RESISTANCE  TO  TEMPTATION. 

[sAMUEL   SMILES.] 

The  young  man,  as  he  passes  through  life,  advances  through  a 
long  line  of  tempters  ranged  on  either  side  of  him ;  and  the  inevit- 
able effect  of  yielding  is  degradation  in  a  greater  or  less  degree. 
Contact  with  them  tends  insensibly  to  draw  away  from  him  some 
portion  of  the  divine  electric  element  with  which  his  nature  is 
charged;  and  his  only  mode  of  resisting  them  is  to  utter  and  to 
act  out  his  "  No,"  manfully  and  resolutely.  He  must  decide  at 
once,  not  waiting  to  deliberate  and  balance  reasons;  for  the  youth, 
like  "the  woman  who  deliberates  is  lost."  Many  deliberate  with- 
out deciding,  but "  not  to  resolve  is  to  resolve."  A  perfect  knowl- 
edge of  man  is  in  the  prayer"  Lead  us  not  into  temptation."  But 
temptation  will  come  to  try  the  young  man's  strength;  and  once 
yielded  to,  the  power  to  resist  grows  weaker  and  weaker.  Yield 
once,  and  a  portion  of  virtue  has  gone.  Resist  manfully,  and  the 
first  decision  will  give  strength  for  life;  repeated,  it  will  become 
a  habit.  It  is  in  the  outworks  of  the  habits  formed  in  early  life 
that  the  real  strength  of  the  defense  must  lie;  for  it  has  been 
wisely  ordained  that  the  machinery  of  moral  existence  should  be 
carried  on  principally  through  the  medium  of  the  habits,  so  as  to 
save  the  wear  and  tear  of  the  great  principles  within.  It  is  good 
habits,  which  insinuate  themselves  into  the  thousand  inconsider- 
able acts  of  life,  that  really  constitute  by  far  the  part  of  man's 
moral  conduct. 

Hugh  Miller  has  told  how  by  an  act  of  youthful  decision  he 
saved  himself  from  one  of  the  strong  temptations  so  peculiar  to  a 
life  of  toil. 

When  employed  as  a  mason,  it  was  usual  for  his  fellow  work- 
men to  have  an  occasional  treat  of  drink,  and  one  day  two  glasses 
of  whisky  fell  to  his  share,  which  he  swallowed. 

When  he  reached  home  he  found,  on  opening  his  favorite  book — 
"  Bacon's  Essays  " — that  the  letters  danced  before  his  eyes,  and 
that  he  could  no  longer  master  the  sense.  "The  condition,"  he 
says,  "into  which  I  had  brought  myself  was,  I  felt,  one  of  degra- 
dation. I  had  sunk,  by  my  own  act,  to  a  lower  level  of  intelligence 
than  that  on  which  it  was  my  privilege  to  be  placed:  and  though 


—  64  — 

the  state  could  have  been  no  very  favorable  one  for  forming  a 
very  favorable  resolution,  I  in  that  hour  determined  that  I  should 
never  sacrifice  my  capacity  of  intellectual  enjoyment  to  a  drink- 
ing usage;  and,  with  God's  help,  I  was  enabled  to  hold  by  the 
determination." 

It  is  such  decisions  as  this  that  often  form  the  turning  points 
in  a  man's  life,  and  furnish  the  foundation  of  his  future  character. 

And  this  rock,  on  which  Hugh  Miller  might  have  been  wrecked, 
if  he  had  not  at  the  right  moment  put  forth  his  moral  strength  to 
strike  away  from  it,  is  one  that  youth  and  manhood  alike  need  to 
be  constantly  on  their  guard  against.  It  is  about  one  of  the  worst 
and  most  deadly  as  well  as  extravagant  temptations  which  lie  in 
the  way  of  youth. 

Sir  Walter  Scott  used  to  say  that,  "  Of  all  vices,  drinking  is  the 
most  incompatible  with  greatness."  Not  only  so,  but  it  is  incom- 
patible vnih.  economy,  decenc}',  health,  and  honest  li\dng.  When 
a  youth  cannot  restrain,  he  must  abstain. 

Dr.  Johnson's  case  is  the  case  of  many.  He  said,  referring  to 
his  own  habits:  "Sir,  I  can  abstain;  but  I  can't  be  moderate." 
Permit  me  to  add,  in  connection  with  the  above,  that  all  our  dan- 
ger lies  in  the  first  drink.  And  for  the  reason  that,  just  in  pro- 
portion to  our  indulgence,  just  in  proportion  will  our  appetites  for 
strong  liquor  increase,  and  our  power  of  resistance  weaken. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

"  Put  not  your  faith  in  Princes,"  or  in  the  man  who  "  stoops  to 
conquer;"  or  in  the  man  who  says  yes  merely  to  accommodate 
you,  or  in  the  man  who  "  has  a  hand  for  everybody,  and  a  heart 
for  nobody." 

Watch  the  man  who  treats  you  well,  and  see  in  what  manner 
he  treats  others;  as  it  is  possible  he  may  have  a  selfish  motive  in 
treating  you  kindly.  But  when  you  see  that  he  is  as  true  to  oth- 
ers as  he  is  to  yourself,  then  give  him  your  entire  confidence,  and 
be  as  true  to  him  as  the  "  needle  is  to  the  pole." — Ed. 

Be  careful  what  you  read,  and  how  you  read.  A  New  York 
journalist  says:  "  I  am  paid  $10,000  a  year  for  keeping  the  truth 


—  65  — 

out  of  the  journal  upon  which  I  am  employed."  And  Professor 
Mathews  says,  "  Mr.  Froude  confesses  that  in  historical  inquiries 
the  most  instructed  thinkers  have  but  a  limited  advantage  over 
the  most  illiterate." 

Those  who  know  the  most,  whose  investigations  are  the  pro- 
foundest,  approach  least  to  agreement. 

''It  is  probable,"  says  an  able  Scottish  writer, "  that  7iof  one  fact 
in  the  whole  range  of  history  original  and  derived  is  truly  stated." 

Read  not  to  contradict  and  confute,  nor  to  beheve  and  take  for 
granted,  nor  to  find  talk  and  discourse,  but  to  weigh  and  consider. 

This  is  the  great  secret  both  of  reading  to  profit  and  of  making 
the  best  choice  of  what  we  read. 

If  books  were  more  commonly  judged  by  their  real  weight,  how 
many  popular  works  would  sink  into  insignificance!  It  is  melan- 
choly to  think  of  the  millions  of  immortal  minds,  that  accustom 
themselves  to  reading,  which  when  weighed  in  the  balance  is 
found  to  contain  little  less  than  the  lightness  of  vanity.  How 
many  that  might  have  attained  the  stature  of  full  grown  man, 
have  thus  become  enervated,  dwarfish,  deformed,  or  crippled. 
With  desires  formed  for  the  highest  enjoyments  and  understand- 
ings, capable  of  the  noblest  improvement,  the  reading  of  trifling 
and  pernicious  books,  the  habit  of  mental  association  with  low, 
mean,  and  unworthy  thoughts,  has  prostrated  the  energies  of 
thousands,  and  debased  them  below  themselves. — Lord  Bacon. 

Those  who  have  read  everything  are  thought  to  understand 
everything  too;  but  it  is  not  always  so. 

Reading  furnishes  the  mind  with  only  materials  of  knowledge; 
it  is  thinking  that  makes  what  we  read  ours. 

We  are  of  the  ruminating  kind,  and  it  is  not  enough  to  cram 
ourselves  with  a  great  load  of  collections;  unless  we  chew  them 
over  again,  they  will  not  give  us  strength  and  nourishment. — 
John  Locke. 

The  Indian  "sees  God  in  clouds  and  hears  Him  in  the  wind," 

and  civilized  man,  when  in  a  demoralized  condition,  oftentimes 

is  struck  with  the  divine  attributes  of  his  Maker,  b}'  looking  upon 

a  simple  flower.     And  I  was  forcibly  reminded  of  the  fact  a  few 

5 


—  66  — 

days  since,  by  hearing  one  of  your  fellow-prisoners  exclaim,  upon 
seeing  a  bouquet  of  flowers  upon  the  desk  in  the  Prison  Library, 
"  If  there  is  one  thing  more  than  another  which  brings  me  near  to 
God,  it  is  flowers."— £cL 

Dick  Fellows,  one  of  your  fellow-prisoners,  says,  "  The  Devil 
oftentimes  appears  to  us  in  the  most  attractive  form;  he  appeared 
to  our  Saviour  on  the  Mount,  in  the  form  of  a  beautiful  woman; 
and  he  appeared  to  me  in  the  form  of  Wells  and  Fargo's  treasure 
box."— ^d. 

"  In  seasons  of  distress  or  difficulty,  to  abandon  ourselves  to 
dejection,  carries  no  mark  of  a  great  or  a  worthy  mind.  Instead 
of  sinking  under  trouble,  and  declaring,  '  that  his  soul  is  weary 
of  life,'  it  becomes  a  wise  and  a  good  man,  in  the  evil  day,  with 
firmness  to  maintain  his  post;  to  bear  up  against  the  storm;  to 
have  recourse  to  those  advantages  which  in  the  worst  of  times 
are  always  left  to  integrity  and  virtue;  and  never  to  give  up  the 
hope  that  better  days  may  yet  arrive." 

Henry  Giles,  in  his  essay  on  "The  Weariness  of  Life,"  says: 
"  Much  of  dissatisfaction  with  life  arises  from  a  doubly  false  esti- 
mate of  life.  We  underrate  our  own  position  in  it;  we  overrate 
the  position  of  others.  Out  of  this  doubly  false  estimate  spring 
correspondent  false  contrasts  and  desires. 

"The  man  of  bodily  labor,  longs  for  mental  labor;  and  con- 
trasted with  his  own  condition,  he  thinks  it  one  of  perfect  ease. 

"And  yet  with  this  wish  much  is  often  connected  that  is  strange 
and  inconsistent. 

"  You  will  sometimes  hear  a  man  whose  toil  is  physical,  expa- 
tiate, with  emphasis,  upon  the  comparative  idleness  which  the 
man  enjoys  whose  avocation  is  intellectual.  Yet  the  man  who 
tlius  expatiates  on  the  scholar's  indolence,  finds  it  a  painful  task 
to  write  a  sin^ple  letter  on  the  plainest  incidents  of  domestic  his- 
tory; not  because  he  wants  ability  or  intelligence,  but  because 
the  use  of  his  mind  in  this  way  is  unfamiliar  to  him". 

"  The  fact  is,  the  scholar  would  have  as  much  reason  to  dwell 
on  the  ease  of  the  farmer,  as  the  farmer  on  the  ease  of  the 
scholar;  and  so  he  constantly  does,  and  with  just  as  much  of 
falsehood. 


—  67  — 

"  The  scholar  contrasts  his  position  falsely  with  the  farmer's  by 
looking  from  his  own  confinement  to  the  farmer's  exercise. 

"The  farmer  contrasts  his  position  falsely  with  that  of  the 
scholar,  by  looking  from  his  own  muscular  exertion  to  the 
scholar's  muscular  repose.  But  he  heeds  not  the  paleness  of  the 
student's  cheek,  or  the  glisten  of  his  eye,  which  shows  that  his 
retreat  has  been  no  fair  elysian  bower. 

"He  heeds  not  the  anxieties,  the  fears,  the  leaden  hours  of 
prolonged  exertion  which  the  library  door  shuts  in. 

"  The  man  of  private  life  desires  the  distinctions  of  public  office; 
but  he  thinks  of  its  power  separate  from  its  toil;  of  its  splendor, 
separate  from  its  danger;  of  the  glory  of  success,  separate  from 
the  shame  of  defeat;  and  of  the  brilliancy  of  its  outward  show, 
separate  from  the  gnawings  of  its  concealed  vexations. 

"  He  sees  not  these  agitated  hours  that  are  hidden  from  the 
world;  and  he  feels  not  these  troubles  that,  though  never  uttered, 
cause  the  sick  heart  to  heave  with  uneasy  palpitations. 

"  He  does  not  consider  that  to  widen  a  man's  relations  is  fre- 
quently to  multiply  his  enemies;  that  to  place  him  in  a  state 
which  many  desire  to  obtain,  is  to  place  him  in  a  position  which 
many  will  endeavor  to  embarrass,  which  many  will  endeavor  to 
render  miserable;  that  is  to  place  him  in  a  position  exposed  to 
envy,  jealousy,  misrepresentation,  and  strife;  and  that  all  the  tor- 
ments will  haunt  it  which  it  is  in  the  power  of  ambitious  rivalry 
or  disappointed  competition  to  invoke. 

"  These  things,  I  am  aware,  have  been  said  thousands  of  times 
before;  they  will  be  said  thousands  of  times  again;  for  though 
life  changes  in  many  things  as  man  grows  older  in  history,  yet, 
n  many  things,  life  is  but  the  repetition  of  itself. 

"  These  things,  it  may  be  said,  are  truisms,  an  old  story;  and  so 
they  are;  but  life  also  is  a  truism,  an  old  story. 

"  The  statement  of  these  mistakes  is  old,  but  they  are  in  individ- 
uals the  occasion  of  a  practical  Ufe  that  is  ever  varied  and  is  ever 
new.  By  underrating,  for  instance,  our  own  position,  we  want 
that  spring  of  hope  which  is  the  inspiration  of  success,  and  we 
work  in  it  with  feeble  and  despondent  souls. 

"  We  never  come  to  understand  the  resources  it  contained,  and 
therefore  we  never  draw  out  from  them  the  riches  which  they 
might  have  yielded. 


—  68  — 

"  By  overrating  the  position  that  is  not  ours,  our  thoughts  are 
divided  and  our  efforts  are  unsteady.  We  do  not  labor  with  all 
our  heart  and  strength  in  our  assigned  vocation,  and  frequently 
we  are  induced  to  leave  it,  to  lose  all  the  power  which  we  ex- 
pended in  it.  to  begin  awkwardly  in  a  new  direction,  to  compete 
with  rivalry  in  ways  for  which  we  are  not  trained;  and  thus, 
doubly  wasted,  doubly  impoverished.  Ave  fail  of  all,  and  in  the 
end  grumble  with  our  lot  and  quarrel  with  our  life." 

Putting  on  Good  Manners  with  Sunday  Clothes. 

Whilst  it  is  the  duty  of  every  man  in  civilized  society  to  pay  a 
proper  regard  to  his  personal  appearance,  it  is  the  height  of  folly 
for  one  to  think  that  gentility  can  be  put  on  or  off  with  our  Sun- 
day clothes.  As  well  might  the  ape  attempt  to  assume  the  digni- 
fied appearance  of  the  philosopher,  or  the  San  Francisco  hoodlum 
to  put  on  good  clothes  with  the  view  of  the  clothes  covering  from 
sight  his  uncouth  and  disgusting  manners,  as  for  us  to  suppose 
for  a  moment  that  we  can  play  the  part  of  blackguard  six  days 
in  the  week  and  appear  like  a  gentleman  on  the  seventh. — Ed. 


HE'S  LOST  HIS  GRIP. 

The  following  sketch,  from  the  pen  of  Prentice  Mulford,  will  be 
read  with  deep  interest  by  those  who  have  given  up  all  hope  of 
being  able  to  improve  their  condition: 

"  It  used  to  be  said  of  a  man  in  the  mines,  when  he  became 
discouraged,  downcast,  and  disinclined  to  labor,  plan,  or  project, 
and  very  much  inclined  to  get  drunk  whenever  he  had  a  chance, 
'  he  lost  his  grip.' 

"There  seems  a  great  deal  of  hidden  meaning  and  force  in 
many  of  these  phases  which  are  evolved,  not  of  dictionaries  or  the 
closets  of  pedants,  but  from  the  situations,  necessities,  emergen- 
cies, and  results  of  every-day  life. 

"  Because  a  hopeful  or  energetic  man  or  woman,  full  of  enter- 
prise and  plan,  takes  a  firmer  hold  or  grip  on  life.  You  may  see 
it  in  their  resolute  walk  and  carriage,  by  the  manner  in  Avhich 


—  69  — 

each  footstep  is  planted,  and  when  they  shake  hands  with  you 
they  take  your  hand  as  if  they  meant  something  by  it. 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  getting  this  '  grip '  on  life  is  yet  an  un- 
taught science;  that  there  is  a  quality  of  the  mind  born  of  resolu- 
tion and  decision,  whereby  this  grip  is  maintained;  that  it  is  of 
vast  importance  it  should  be  better  understood  and  comprehended ; 
that  disease  and  weakness,  first  mental,  next  physical,  comes  of 
losing  this  grip,  and  that  is  a  matter  to  be  considered,  both  with 
reference  to  the  '  here '  and  the  hereafter. 

"I  think  a  good  'grip'  on  life  will  help  to  cure  almost  any  fail- 
ing and  any  disease.  Doctors  will  tell  you,  and  many  of  us  know 
of  people,  who  ought  to  have  died,  according  to  all  the  rules  of 
medical  science,  long  ago,  but  who  wouldn't  die  because  they  said 
they  wouldn't,  and  they  didn't.  They  never  let  go  their  '  grip '  on 
life. 

"It  is  wonderful  what  a  strengthening  effect  a  word  may  have 
on  a  person's  mind  as  regards  holding  his  '  grip.'  You  say  to  your- 
self in  times  of  difficulty,  doubt,  and  discouragement,  '  I  will,'  '  I 
will,'  '  I  will '  do  thus  and  so,  and  keep  on  from  time  to  time 
repeating  these  words,  and  you  seem  to  call  into  yourself  at  last 
a  power — a  power  of  which  helps  remove  the  trouble.  You  laugh, 
of  course,  at  this,  and  say,  '  that's  all  imagination.'  Of  course. 
Laugh  away.  It  will  do  you  good.  But  try  the  recipe  the  next 
time  you  want  to  climb  out  of  the  dumps.  Say,  '  I  will  climb  out 
of  this  mire.'  Keep  on  saying  it.  See  if  it  does  not  help  you  to 
climb. 

"  You  need  so  to  climb,  perhaps,  for  your  heart  is  heavy,  your 
body  weak,  your  will  ditto,  your  appetite  gone,  the  world  a  vale  of 
tears,  and  life  a  burden.  A  '  heavy  heart '  means  literally  and 
physically,  a  heavy  and  cast-down  heart,  for  if  you  could  exam- 
ine that  useful  organ  at  such  times,  you  might  find  it  below  its 
proper  place;  that  it  was  not  pumping  blood  with  its  accustomed 
energy,  and  that  the  blood  about  it  was  more  or  less  congested  and 
of  sluggish  motion,  all  of  which  causes  give  that  peculiar  pain 
and  heaviness,  known  as  a  'headache.'  Of  course,  if  the  heart 
does  not  work  properly  neither  will  the  stomach,  and  if  the  stom- 
ach does  not  work,  what  will  work  inside  of  us?  Our  organs  are 
much  like  a  row  of  bricks — upset  one  and  the  rest  follow  suit. 


—  70  — 

"  It  is  very  important  that  things  do  work  properly  inside  of  us, 
in  order  that  we  may  properly  work  things  outside. 

"  What  is  grip?  Call  it  will.  What  is  will?  I  do  not  know. 
It  is  a  quality  of  which  each  person  has  more  or  less.  It  is  a  very 
desirable  quality.  A  person  having  it  in  plenty  and  knowing  it, 
and  knowing  the  necessity  for  its  use,  can  do  a  great  deal  in  the 
world.  The  will  is  put  in  as  a  power,  and  there  is  good  reason  to 
believe  that  it  may  be  increased  by  cultivation,  or  by  willing  to 
have  more  will.  There  is  reason  to  believe  that  its  capacity  for 
increase  is  illimitable.  Whether  it  so  grows  inside  of  us,  or 
whether  it  is  an  element  we  draw  to  us  from  the  outside,  I  cannot 
say  and  never  found  anybody  who  could.  But  if  it  can  be  culti- 
vated and  increased  by  so  easy  and  simple  a  process  as  wishing 
for  more  of  it,  asking  for  it,  praying  for  it,  demanding  it  and  say- 
ing '  I  will,'  it  is  a  very  important  thing  for  people  to  know. 

"  Please  do  not  be  too  ready  to '  despise  the  day  of  small  things.' 
We  know  really  very  little  of  these  thinking  mysteries  we  call  our 
minds.  If  you  declared  to  another  your  belief  that  a  thought  was 
a  thing — an  invisible  thing,  to  be  sure,  but  none  the  less  a  thing — 
an  element  or  combination  of  elements  coming  out  of  your  brain 
maybe,  you  would  be  met  with  a  howl  of  derision.  The  idea  that 
thoughts  are  things — are  anything!  Thought,  the  mind,  pictures, 
plans,  opinions,  wishes,  lies,  half-lies,  and  all  the  product  of  our 
minds  are  only  myths — nothings — of  course.  We  can't  see  them; 
hence,  they  are  nothings  or  next  to  it.  So  we  reason  in  this 
matter. 

"  Yet  it's  the  thought  that  does  it  all.  You  plan — you  think  out 
your  undertaking,  first,  and  then  put  it  in  practice  afterwards. 
You  plan,  first,  every  physical  act,  even  to  each  step  made  in  walk- 
ing. When  you  say, '  I  will,'  or '  I  won't,'  and  put  your  mental  foot 
down  with  energy  and  decision  on  this  '  say  so '  you  do  create 
something  about  you  which  seems  to  make  more  energy,  decision, 
and  resolution — more  power  to  perform  the '  I  will,'  or '  I  won't.' 

"  Why,  the  lack  of  '  grip '  will  write  itself  all  over  people's  forms 
and  faces.  You  know  the  man  who  has  '  lost  his  grip '  by  the 
pursed  lips,  the  drooping  lower  jaw,  the  downcast  eye,  the  bent 
form,  the  slouching  shoulders,  the  irresolute,  halting,  shambling 
gait — no  purpose,  no  aim,  no  end  in  view — only  to  live  on  and 
endure  life  from  day  to  day,  and  growl  and  grumble.     Surely 


thought,  or  the  lack  of  it,  has  been  here  an  active  agent  in  accom- 
pHshing  sad  results. 

"  I  shall  now  become  more  or  less  visionary  in  my  opinion  and 
then  stop.  I  believe  that  thoughts  are  things — intangible  and 
invisible  things,  but  none  the  less  things — the  finest  and  possibly 
the  most  powerful  product  of  what  we  call  '  matter.' 

"  For  the  sake  of  making  an  amusing  theory  I  will  assume  that 
a  person  builds  up  a  sort  of  thought  structure  all  about  them — an 
invisible  envelope  or  garment  of  their  ideas;  that  this  thought 
envelope  affects  others  coming  near  them,  pleasantly  or  otherwise, 
according  to  its  character;  that  the  finer  your  organization  the 
more  sensitive  your  brain-threads,  called  nerves,  the  easier  do 
you  feel  this  thought  coming  from  another,  and  this  may  account 
for  your  '  first  impressions '  of  people,  which  time  so  often  verifies 
as  correct.  If  you  build  up  the  '  I  will '  structure,  you  draw  the 
more  will  power  to  you  and  become  the  stronger  continually.  If 
you  will  even  build  up  the  'I  can't,'  and  'it's  no  use  trying,' 
and  '  what's  the  use  of  living  anyway  ? '  garment,  you  drive  off 
the  will  element  and  become  the  weaker  and  worse;  you  drive  off 
eventually  the  people  of  will  who  might  help  you,  but  who  are 
repelled  by  any  one  who  is  in  a  chronic  state  of  '  flop.' " 


A  COLLOQUY  BETWEEN  LOCKE  AND  BAYLE. 

[lord  lyttleton.] 
Locke. — An  enthusiast,  who  advanced  doctrines  prejudicial  to 
society,  or  opposes  any  that  are  useful  to  it,  has  the  strength  of 
opinion,  and  the  heat  of  a  disturbed  imagination  to  plead  in  alle- 
viation of  his  fault.  But  your  cool  head  and  sound  judgment  can 
have  no  such  excuse.  I  know  very  well  there  are  passages  in  all 
your  works,  and  those  not  few,  where  you  talk  like  a  rigid  moral- 
ist. I  have  also  heard  that  your  character  was  irreproachable, 
good.  But  when,  in  the  most  labored  parts  of  your  writing,  you 
sap  the  surest  foundations  of  all  moral  duties,  what  avails  it  that 
in  others,  or  in  the  conduct  of  your  life,  you  appeared  to  respect 
them.  How  many,  who  have  stronger  passions  than  you  had,  and 
are  desirous  to  get  rid  of  the  curb  that  restrains  them,  will  lay 


—  72  — 

liold  of  your  scepticism  to  set  themselves  loose  from  all  obligations 
of  virtue.  A\'hat  a  misfortune  is  it  to  have  made  such  a  use  of 
such  talents;  it  would  have  been  better  for  you  and  for  mankind, 
if  you  had  been  one  of  the  dullest  of  Dutch  theologians,  or  the 
most  credulous  monk  in  a  Portuguese  convent.  The  riches  of  the 
mind,  like  those  of  fortune,  may  be  employed  so  perversely  as  to 
become  a  nuisance  and  pest,  instead  of  an  ornament  and  support 
to  society. 

Bayle. — You  are  ver}^  severe  upon  me.  But  do  you  count  it  no 
merit,  no  service  to  mankind  to  deliver  them  from  the  frauds  and 
fetters  of  priestcraft;  from  the  deliriums  of  fanaticism,  and  from 
the  terrors  and  follies  of  superstition.  Consider  how  much  mis- 
chief these  have  done  in  the  world;  even  in  the  last  age,  what 
massacres;  what  civil  wars;  what  convulsions  of  government; 
what  confusion  in  societ}'^  did  they  produce.  Nay,  in  that  we  both 
lived  in,  though  much  more  enlightened  than  the  former.  Did  I 
not  see  them  occasion  a  violent  persecution  in  my  own  country; 
and  can  you  blame  me  for  striking  at  the  root  of  these  evils  ? 

Locke. — The  root  of  these  evils,  you  well  know,  was  false  reli- 
gion, but  you  struck  at  the  true.  Heaven  and  hell  are  not  more 
different  than  the  system  of  faith  I  defended,  and  that  which  pro- 
duced the  horrors  of  which  you  speak.  Why  would  you  so  falla- 
ciously confound  them  together  in  some  of  your  writings  that  it 
requires  much  more  judgment,  and  a  more  diligent  attention  than 
ordinary  readers  have,  to  separate  them  again,  and  to  make  the 
proper  distinctions?  This,  indeed,  is  the  great  art  of  the  most 
celebrated  free-thinkers.  They  recommend  themselves  to  warm 
and  ingenuous  minds,  by  lively  strokes  of  wit,  and  by  arguments 
really  strong,  against  superstition,  enthusiasm,  and  priestcraft. 
But,  at  the  same  time,  they  insidiously  throw  the  colors  of  these 
upon  the  fair  face  of  true  religion,  and  dress  her  out  in  their  garb, 
with  a  malignant  intention  to  render  her  odious  or  despicable,  to 
those  who  have  not  penetration  enough  to  discover  the  impious 
fraud.  Some  of  them  may  have  thus  deceived  themselves,  as 
well  as  others.  Yet  it  is  certain  no  book  that  ever  was  written 
by  the  most  acute  of  these  gentlemen  is  so  repugnant  to  priest- 
craft, to  spiritual  tyranny,  to  all  absurd  superstitions,  to  all  that 
can  tend  to  disturb  or  injure  society,  as  that  gospel  they  so  much 
affect  to  despise. 


—  73  — 

Bayle. — Mankind  are  so  made  that,  when  they  have  been  over- 
heated, they  cannot  be  brought  to  a  proper  temper  again  till  they 
have  been  over-cooled.  My  scepticism  might  be  necessary  to 
abate  the  fear  and  frenzy  of  false  religion. 

Locke. — A  wise  prescription,  indeed,  to  bring  on  a  paralytical 
state  of  the  mind  (for  such  a  skepticism  as  yours  is  a  palsy, ' 
which  deprives  the  mind  of  all  vigor  and  deadens  its  natural  and 
vital  powers)  in  order  to  take  off  a  fever,  which  temperance  and 
the  milk  of  the  evangelical  doctrines  would  probably  cure. 

Bayle. — I  acknowledge  that  those  medicines  have  a  great 
power.  But  few  doctors  apply  them  untainted  with  the  mixture 
of  some  harsher  drugs,  or  some  unsafe  and  ridiculous  nostrums  of 
their  own. 

Locke. — What  you  now  say  is  too  true.  God  has  given  us  a 
most  excellent  physic  for  the  soul  in  all  its  diseases;  but  bad  and 
interested  physicians,  or  ignorant  and  conceited  quacks,  adminis- 
ter it  so  ill  to  the  rest  of  mankind  that  much  of  the  benefit  of  it 
is  unhappily  lost. 


ON  THE  IMMORTALITY  OF  THE  SOUL. 

[lord  bacon.] 

I  was  yesterday  walking  alone,  in  one  of  my  friend's  woods,  and 
lost  myself  in  it  very  agreeably,  as  I  was  running  over  in  mind 
the  several  arguments  that  established  this  great  point,  which  is 
the  basis  of  morality,  and  the  source  of  all  the  pleasing  hopes  and 
secret  joys  that  can  arise  in  the  heart  of  a  reasonable  creature. 

I  consider  these  several  proofs  drawn:  First,  from  the  nature 
of  the  soul  itself,  and  particularly  its  innate  vitality;  which  though 
not  absolutely  necessary  to  the  eternity  of  its  dui*ation,  has,  I  think, 
been  evinced  to  almost  a  demonstration. 

Secondly,  from  its  passions  and  sentiments;  as,  particularly, 
from  its  love  of  existence;  its  horror  of  annihilation;  and  its  hopes 
of  immortality;  with  that  secret  satisfaction  which  it  finds  in  the 
practice  of  virtue;  and  that  uneasiness  which  follows  upon  the 
commission  of  vice. 

Thirdly,  from  the  nature  of  the  Supreme  Being,  whose  justice, 
goodness,  wisdom,  and  veracity  are  all  concerned  in  this  point. 


—  74  — 

But  among  these  and  other  excellent  arguments  for  the  immor- 
tality of  the  soul,  there  is  one  drawn  from  the  perpetual  progress 
of  the  soul  to  its  perfection,  without  a  possibility  of  ever  arriving 
at  it;  which  is  a  hint  that  I  do  not  remember  to  have  seen  opened 
and  improved  by  others,  who  have  written  on  this  subject,  though 
it  seems  to  me  to  carry  a  very  great  weight  with  it.  How  can  it 
enter  into  the  thoughts  of  man,  that  the  soul,  which  is  capable  of 
immense  perfections,  and  of  receiving  new  improvements  to  all 
eternity,  shall  fall  away  into  nothing  almost  as  soon  as  it  is  created. 
Are  such  abilities  made  for  no  purpose  ?  A  brute  arrives  at  a  point 
of  perfection  that  he  can  never  pass;  in  a  few  years  he  has  all  the 
endowments  he  is  capable  of,  and  were  he  to  live  ten  thousand 
years  more,  would  be  the  same  thing  he  is  at  present.  Were  a 
human  soul  thus  at  a  stand  in  her  accomplishments;  were  her 
faculties  to  be  full  blown,  and  incapable  of  farther  enlargement;  I 
could  imagine  she  might  fall  away  insensibly,  and  drop  at  once 
into  a  state  of  annihilation.  But  can  we  believe  a  thinking  being 
that  is  in  a  perpetual  progress  of  improvement,  and  traveling  on 
from  perfection,  after  having  just  looked  abroad  into  the  works 
of  her  Creator,  and  made  a  few  discoveries  of  His  infinite  good- 
ness, wisdom,  and  power,  must  perish  at  her  first  setting  out,  and 
in  the  very  beginning  of  her  inquiries.  Man,  considered  only  in 
his  present  state,  seems  sent  into  the  world  merely  to  propagate 
his  kind.  He  provides  himself  with  a  successor,  and  immediately 
quits  his  post  to  make  room  for  him.  He  does  not  seem  born  to 
enjoy  life,  but  to  deliver  it  down  to  others. 

This  is  not  surprising  to  consider  in  animals,  which  are  formed 
for  our  use,  and  which  can  finish  their  business  in  a  short  life. 

The  silkworm  after  having  spun  her  task  lays  her  eggs  and 
dies.  But  a  man  cannot  take  in  his  full  measure  of  knowledge, 
has  not  time  to  subdue  his  passion,  establish  his  soul  in  virtue, 
and  come  up  to  the  perfection  of  his  nature,  before  he  is  hurried 
off  the  stage. 

Would  an  infinitely  wise  Being  make  such  glorious  creatures 
for  so  mean  a  purpose  ?  Can  he  delight  in  the  production  of  such 
abortive  intelligence,  such  short-lived,  reasonable  beings  ?  Would 
he  give  us  talents  that  are  not  to  be  exerted  ?  Capacities  that  are 
never  to  be  gratified  ? 

How  can  Ave  find  that  wisdom  which  shines  through  all  His 


works  in  the  formation  of  man  without  looking  on  this  world  as 
only  a  nursery  for  the  next;  and  without  believing  that  the  sev- 
eral generations  of  rational  creatures,  which  rise  up  and  disappear 
in  such  quick  succession,  are  only  to  receive  their  first  rudiments 
of  existence  here,  and  afterwards  to  be  transplanted  into  a  more 
friendly  climate,  where  they  may  spread  and  flourish  to  all  eter- 
nity? 

There  is  not,  in  my  opinion,  a  more  pleasing  and  triumphant 
consideration  in  religion,  than  this  of  the  perpetual  progress, 
which  the  soul  makes  towards  the  perfection  of  its  nature,  with- 
out ever  arriving  at  a  period  in  it.  To  look  upon  the  soul  as  going 
on  from  strength  to  strength;  to  consider  she  is  to  shine  forever 
with  new  accessions  of  glory,  and  brighten  to  all  eternity;  that 
she  will  be  still  adding  virtue  to  virtue,  and  knowledge  to  knowl- 
edge; carries  in  it  something  wonderfully  agreeable  to  that  ambi- 
tion which  is  natural  to  the  mind  of  man.  Xay,  it  must  be  a 
prospect  pleasing  to  God  himself,  to  see  his  creation  for  ever  beau- 
tifying in  His  eyes;  and  drawing  nearer  to  Him,  by  greater  degrees 
of  resemblance. 

Methinks  this  single  consideration,  of  the  progress  of  a  finite 
spirit  to  perfection,  will  be  sufficient  to  extinguish  all  envy  in 
inferior  natures,  and  all  contempt  in  superior.  That  cherub, 
which  now  appears  as  a  god  to  a  human  soul,  knows  very  well 
that  the  period  will  come  about  in  eternity,  when  the  human  soul 
shall  be  as  perfect  as  he  himself  now  is ;  nay,  when  she  shall  look 
down  upon  that  degree  of  perfection  as  much  as  she  now  falls 
short  of  it. 

It  is  true,  the  higher  nature  still  advances,  and  by  that  means 
preserves  his  distance  and  superiority  in  the  scale  of  being;  but 
he  knows  that,  how  high  soever  the  station  is  of  which  he  stands 
possessed  at  present,  the  inferior  nature  will,  at  length,  mount  up 
to  it,  and  shine  forth  in  the  same  degree  of  glory.  With  what 
astonishment  and  veneration  may  we  look  into  our  own  soiils, 
where  there  are  such  hidden  stores  of  virtue  and  knowledge,  such 
unexhausted  sources  of  perfection!  We  know  not  yet  what  we 
shall  be:  nor  will  it  ever  enter  into  the  heart  of  man  to  conceive 
the  glory  that  will  be  always  in  reserve  for  him.  The  soul,  con- 
sidered vnih  its  Creator,  is  like  one  of  those  mathematical  lines, 
that  may  draw  nearer  to  another  for  all  eternity,  without  a  possi- 


—  76  — 

bility  of  touching  it;  and  can  there  be  a  thought  so  transporting, 
as  to  consider  ourselves  in  these  perpetual  approaches  to  Him, 
who  is  the  standard,  not  only  of  perfection,  but  happiness. 


A  FATHER'S  PATHETIC  APPEAL. 

The  following  letter  taken  from  the  Covington  "  Common- 
wealth," was  written  by  a  father  to  a  son  of  dissipated  habits: 

My  Dear  Sox:  What  would  you  think  of  yourself  if  you  should 
come  to  our  bedside  every  night,  and,  waking  us  up,  tell  us  you 
would  not  allow  us  to  sleep  any  more  ? 

This  is  what  you  are  doing;  and  that  is  why  I  am  up. 

Your  mother  is  nearly  w^orn  out  with  turning  from  side  to  side, 
and  with  sighing  because  you  won't  let  her  sleep. 

That  mother  who  nursed  you  in  your  infancy,  toiled  for  you  in 
childhood,  and  watched  with  pride  and  joy  upon  you  as  you  were 
growing  up  to  manhood,  as  she  counted  upon  the  comfort  and 
support  you  would  give  her  in  her  declining  years.  We  read  of 
the  barbarous  manner  in  which  one  of  the  Oriental  nations  pun- 
ishes some  of  its  criminals.  It  is  by  cutting  the  flesh  slowly  from 
the  body  in  small  pieces — slowly  cutting  ofiF  the  limbs,  beginning 
with  the  fingers  and  toes — until  the  wretched  victim  dies. 

That  is  just  what  you  are  doing.  You  are  killing  your  mother 
by  inches. 

You  have  planted  many  of  the  white  hairs  that  have  appeared 
in  her  head  before  their  time.  Your  cruel  hand  is  drawing  the 
lines  of  sorrow  on  her  dear  face,  making  her  look  prematurely 
old.  You  might  as  well  stick  your  knife  in  her,  every  time  you 
come  near  her,  for  your  conduct  is  stabbing  her  to  the  heart. 
You  might  as  well  bring  her  coffin  and  force  her  into  it,  for  you 
are  pressing  her  towards  it  with  ver}'-  rapid  steps. 

Would  you  tread  on  her  body  if  prostrate  on  the  floor?  And 
yet  with  ungrateful  steps  you  are  treading  on  her  heart  and  crush- 
ing out  life  and  joy.  No,  I  need  not  say  joy,  for  that  is  a  thing 
we  have  long  ago  ceased  to  see,  because  you  have  taken  it  away 
from  us.  Of  course  we  have  to  meet  many  of  our  friends  with 
smiles,  but  they  little  know  the  bitterness  within. 


You  have  taken  the  roses  out  of  your  sister's  pathway  and  scat- 
tered thorns  instead,  and  from  the  pain  they  inflict  scalding  tears 
are  seen  coursing  down,  her  cheeks.  Thus  you  are  blotting  out 
her  life  as  well  as  ours.  And  what  can  you  promise  yourself  for 
the  future  ? 

Look  at  the  miserable,  bloated,  ragged  wretches  whom  you  meet 
every  day,  and  see  in  them  an  exact  picture  of  w'hat  you  are  com- 
ing to  and  will  be  in  a  few  years.  Then  in  the  end  a  drunkard's 
grave  and  a  drunkard's  doom!  For  the  Bible  says:  "  No  drunk- 
ard shall  inherit  the  kingdom."  Where,  then,  will  you  be?  If 
not  in  the  Kingdom  of  God  you  must  be  somewhere  else.  Will 
not  these  considerations  induce  you  to  quit  at  once  and  for  all 
time?  And  may  God  help  you,  for  He  can  and  will  if  you  ear- 
nestly ask  it. 

Your  affectionate  but  sorrow-stricken 

FATHER. 


THE  OPIUM  HABIT. 

fjIATHEWS.] 

0,  thou  invisible  spirit  of  opium,  if  thou  hast  no  other  name 
to  be  known  by,  let  us  call  thee  de^dl.  (Shakespeare  para- 
phrased.)— Ed. 

It  was  in  1804,  at  the  age  of  19,  that  De  Quincey  first  began  tak- 
ing opium  to  ease  rheumatic  pains  in  the  face  and  head.  This 
dangerous  remedy  ha\ang  been  recommended  to  him  by  a  fellow 
student  at  Oxford,  he  entered  a  druggist's  shop,  and,  like  Tha- 
laba  in  the  witches'  lair,  wound  about  himself  the  first  threads 
of  a  coil,  which  after  the  most  gigantic  efforts,  he  was  never  able 
wholly  to  shake  off". 

Using  opium  at  first  to  quiet  pain,  he  quickly  found  that  it  had 
mightier  and  more  magical  eft'ects,  and  went  on  increasing  the 
doses  till  in  1816  he  was  taking  three  hundred  and  twenty  grains 
or  eight  thousand  drops  of  laudanum  a  day.  What  a  picture  he 
has  given  us  of  the  discovery  he  made!  What  a  revelation  the 
dark  but  subtle  drug  made  to  his  spiritual  eyes!  What  an  agent 
of  immortal  and  exalted  pleasures!  What  an  apocalypse  of  the 
world  within  him! 


—  78  — 

Here  was  a  panacea  for  sorrow  and  suffering  for  tlie  brain- 
ache  and  heart-ache — immunity  from  pain,  and  care,  and  all 
human  woes.  He  swallowed  a  bit  of  the  drug,  and  lo!  the  inner 
spirit's  eyes  were  opened — a  fairy  ministrant  had  burst  into  wings, 
weaving  a  wondrous  wand — a  fresh  tree  of  knowledge  had  yielded 
its  fruit,  and  it  seemed  as  good  as  it  was  beautiful.  Happiness 
might  now  be  bought  for  a  penny  and  carried  in  the  waistcoat 
pocket;  portable  ecstacies  might  now  be  had,  corked  up  in  a  pint 
bottle,  and  peace  of  mind  sent  down  in  gallons  by  mail. 

Here  we  may  observe  that  De  Quincey  contradicts  the  state- 
ments which  are  usually  made  regarding  opium.  He  denies  that 
it  intoxicates,  and  shows  that  there  is  such  an  insidiousness 
about  it  that  it  scarcely  seems  to  be  a  qualification  of  the  senses. 
The  pleasure  of  wine  is  one  that  rises  to  a  certain  pitch,  and  then 
degenerates  into  a  stupidity,  while  that  of  opium  remains  station- 
ary for  eight  or  ten  hours. 

Again,  the  influence  of  wine  tends  to  disorder  the  mind,  while 
opium  tends  to  exalt  the  ideas,  and  yet  to  contribute  to  harmony 
and  order  in  their  arrangement.  "The  opium-eater  feels  that  the 
diviner  part  of  his  nature  is  uppermost;  that  is,  the  moral  affec- 
tions are  in  a  state  of  cloudless  serenity,  and  over  all  is  the  great 
light  of  the  majestic  intellect."  Alas !  that  this  blissful  state 
could  not  continue.  But  the  very  drug  which  had  revealed  to 
him  such  an  abyss  of  divine  enjoyment — which  had  given  to  him 
the  keys  of  paradise,  causing  to  pass  before  his  spirit's  eyes  a  never- 
ending  succession  of  splendid  imagery,  the  gorgeous  coloring  of  sky 
and  cloud,  the  pomp  of  woods  and  forests,  the  majesty  of  bound- 
less oceans,  and  the  grandeur  of  imperial  cities,  while  to  the  ear, 
cleansed  from  their  mortal  infirmities,  were  borne  the  sublime 
anthem  of  the  winds  and  waves,  and  a  sevenfold  chorus  of  halle- 
lujahs and  harping  symphonies — this  very  power  became  eventu- 
ally its  own  avenging  nenia,  and  inflicted  torments  compared  with 
which  those  of  Prometheus  were  as  the  bites  of  a  gnat. 

Of  all  the  torments  which  opium  inflicts  upon  its  votary,  per- 
haps there  is  no  one  more  destructive  of  his  peace  than  the  sense 
of  incapacity  and  feebleness — of  inability  to  perform  duties  which 
conscience  tells  him  he  nuist  not  neglect.  The  opium-eater,  De 
Quincey  tells  us,  loses  none  of  his  moral  sensibilities  or  aspirations: 
he  wishes  and  longs  as  earnestly  as  ever  to  realize  what  he  believes 


—  79  — 

possible  and  feels  to  be  exacted  by  duty;  but  the  springs  of  his 
will  are  all  broken,  and  his  intellectual  apprehension  of  what  is 
possible  infinitely  outruns  his  power,  not  of  execution  only,  but 
even  of  power  to  attempt. 

He  lies  under  the  weight  of  incubus  and  nightmare;  he  lies  in 
sight  of  all  that  he  would  fain  perform;  just  a  man  forcibly  con- 
fined to  his  bed  by  the  mortal  languor  of  a  relaxing  disease,  who 
is  compelled  to  witness  injury  or  outrage  offered  to  some  object  of 
his  tenderest  love.  He  curses  the  spells  which  chain  him  down 
from  motion ;  he  would  lay  down  his  life  if  he  might  but  get  up  and 
walk;  but  he  is  as  powerless  as  an  infant,  and  cannot  even  attempt 
to  rise.  Of  the  cup  of  horrors  which  opium  finally  presents  to  its 
devotees  De  Quincey  drank  to  the  dregs,  especially  in  his  dreams 
at  night,  when  the  fearful  and  shadowy  phantoms  that  flitted  by 
his  bedside  made  his  sleep  insufferable  by  the  terror  and  anguish 
they  occasioned. 

Of  these  dreams,  as  portrayed  in  the  "  Confessions,"  and  some 
of  his  other  writings,  we  doubt  if  it  would  be  possible  to  find  a 
parallel  in  any  literature,  ancient  or  modern.  Sometimes  they  are 
blended  with  appalling  associations,  encompassed  with  the  power 
of  darkness,  or  shrouded  with  the  mysteries  of  death  and  the  gloom 
of  the  grave.  Now  they  are  pervaded  with  unimaginable  horrors 
of  oriental  imagery  and  mythological  tortures;  the  dreamer  is 
oppressed  with  tropical  heat  and  vertical  sunlight,  and  brings 
together  all  the  physical  prodigies  of  China  and  Hindostan. 

He  runs  into  pagodas,  and  is  fixed  for  centuries  at  the  summit, 
or  in  secret  rooms;  he  flies  from  the  wrath  of  Brahma  through  all 
the  forests  of  Asia;  Kishnu  hates  him;  Seeba  lays  wait  for  him; 
he  comes  suddenly  on  Isis  and  Osiris;  he  has  done  a  deed,  they 
say,  at  which  the  fleis  and  the  crocodile  tremble;  he  is  buried  for 
a  thousand  years  in  stone  coffins,  with  mummies  and  sphinxes, 
ill  narrow  chambers  at  the  heart  of  the  eternal  pyramids.  He  is 
kissed  with  cancerous  kisses  by  crocodiles,  and  laid  confounded 
with  all  unutterable,  slimy  things,  amongst  reeds  and  niletic  mud. 

Over  every  form,  and  threat,  and  punishment,  and  dim,  sight- 
less incarceration,  brooded  a  sense  of  eternity  and  infinity  that 
drove  me  into  an  oppression  of  madness.  Into  these  dreams  only, 
it  was,  with  one  or  two  slight  exceptions,  that  any  circumstances 
of  physical  horror  entered.     All  before  had  been  moral  and  spirit- 


—  80  — 

nal  terrors.  But  here  the  main  agents  were  ugly  birds,  or  snakes, 
or  crocodiles,  especially  the  last.  The  cursed  crocodile  became  to 
me  the  object  of  more  horrors  than  almost  all  the  rest.  I  was 
compelled  to  live  with  him;  and  (as  was  always  the  case,  almost 
in  my  dreams),  for  centuries. 

I  escaped  sometimes,  and  found  myself  in  Chinese  houses,  with 
cane  tables,  etc.  All  the  feet  of  the  tables,  sofas,  etc.,  soon  became 
instinct  with  life;  the  abominable  head  of  the  crocodile,  and  his 
leering  eyes,  looked  out  at  me,  multiplied  into  a  thousand  repeti- 
tions; and  I  stood  loathing  and  fascinated.  And  so  often  did  this 
hideous  reptile  haunt  my  dreams,  that  many  times  the  very  same 
dream  was  broken  up  in  the  very  same  way.  I  heard  gentle  voices 
speaking  to  me  (I  hear  everything  Avhen  I  am  sleeping),  and  in- 
stantly I  awoke;  it  was  broad  noon,  and  my  children  were  stand- 
ing, hand  in  hand,  at  my  bedside;  come  to  show  me  their  colored 
shoes,  or  new  frocks,  or  to  let  me  see  them  dressed  for  going  out. 
I  protest  that  so  awful  was  the  transition  from  the  damned  croco- 
dile, and  the  other  unutterable  monsters  and  abortions  of  my 
dreams,  to  the  sight  of  innocent  human  nature  and  infancy, 
that  in  the  mighty  and  sudden  revulsion  of  mind,  I  wept,  and 
could  not  forbear  it,  as  I  kissed  their  faces. 

Anon,  there  would  come  suddenly  a  dream  of  a  far  different 
character — a  tumultuous  dream — commencing  with  music,  and  a 
multitudinous  movement  of  infinite  cavalcades  filing  off,  and  the 
tread  of  innumerable  armies.  The  morning  was  come  of  a  mighty 
day — a  day  of  crisis  and  of  ultimate  hope  for  human  nature,  then 
suffering  mysterious  eclipse,  and  laboring  in  some  dread  extrem- 
ity. 

Somewhere,  but  I  know  not  where — somehow,  by  some  beings, 
I  know  not  by  whom — a  battle,  a  strife,  an  agony  was  traveling 
through  all  its  stages,  was  evolving  itself  like  the  catastrophe  of 
some  mighty  drama,  with  which  my  sympathy  was  the  more  in- 
supportable, from  deepening  confusion  as  to  its  local  scene,  its 
cause,  its  nature,  and  its  undecipherable  issue. 

I  (as  is  usual  in  dreams,  where  of  necessity  we  make  our- 
selves central  to  every  movement),  had  the  power,  and  yet  had 
not  the  power,  to  decide  it.  I  had  the  power,  if  I  could  raise  my- 
self to  will  it;  and  yet  again  had  not  the  power,  for  the  weight  of 


—  81  — 

twenty  Atlantics  was  upon  me,  or  the  oppression  of  inexpiable 
guilt. 

"Deeper  than  ever  plummet,"  I  lay  inactive.  Then  like  a 
chorus  the  passion  deepened.  Some  greater  interest  was  at  stake, 
some  mightier  cause,  than  ever  yet  the  sword  had  pleaded,  or 
trumpet  had  proclaimed.  Then  came  sudden  alarms,  hurryings 
to  and  fro,  trepidations  of  innumerable  fugitives — I  know  not 
whether  from  the  good  cause  or  the  bad — darkness  and  light; 
tempest  and  human  faces;  and,  at  last,  with  the  sense  that  all 
was  lost,  female  forms,  and  the  features  that  were  worth  all  the 
world  to  me,  and  but  a  moment  allowed,  and  clasped  hands,  with 
heart-breaking  partings,  and  then  everlasting  farewells;  and  with 
a  sigh  such  as  the  caves  of  hell  sighed,  when  the  incestuous 
mother  uttered  the  abhored  name  of  death,  the  sound  was  rever- 
berated everlasing  farewells!  and  again,  and  yet  again  reverber- 
ated everlasting  farewells! 


HORATIO   SEYMOUR'S  ADDRESS. 

The  following  admirable  address,  delivered  before  the  inmates 
in  Auburn  Prison,  N.  Y.,  will  be  read  with  great  interest,  as  it 
contains  such  grand  ideas  as  can  only  emanate  from  a  great 
mind  Uke  Horatio  Seymour's. — Ed. 

ADDRESS. 

I  have  declined  all  invitations  this  year  to  make  public  ad- 
dresses, but  when  your  Warden  asked  me  to  speak  to  you  to-day 
I  made  up  my  mind  to  do  so,  although  at  the  hazard  of  my 
health.  My  interest  in  the  inmates  of  this  and  other  prisons 
grows  out  of  official  duties,  as  I  have  had  to  act  on  many  cases,  of 
applications  for  pardons.  I  have  learned,  from  a  long  experience 
with  men  in  all  conditions  of  life,  that  none  are  without  faults 
and  none  without  virtues.  I  have  studied  characters  with  care. 
I  have  had  to  deal  with  Presidents  and  with  prisoners.  I  have 
associated  with  those  held  in  high  honor  by  the  American  people. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  laws  of  our  State  have  placed  the  lives  of 
criminal  men  in  my  hands,  and  it  has  been  my  duty  to  decide  if 
6 


—  82  — 

they  should  hve  or  die.  The  period  in  which  I  took  the  most 
active  part  in  pubhc  affairs  was  one  of  great  excitement,  when 
passions  and  prejudices  were  aroused;  and,  in  common  with  all 
others  engaged  in  the  controversies  of  the  day,  I  have  felt  the 
bitterness  of  partisan  strife;  nevertheless,  experience  has  taught 
me  to  think  kindly  of  my  fellow-men.  The  longer  I  live  the 
better  I  think  of  their  hearts  and  the  less  of  their  heads.  Every- 
where, from  the  President's  mansion  to  the  prisoner's  cell,  I  have 
learned  the  wisdom  of  that  prayer  which  begs  that  we  may  be 
delivered  from  temptation. 

Another  great  truth  is  taught  by  experience:  hope  is  the  great 
reformer.  We  must  instill  this  in  men's  minds  if  we  wish  to  cul- 
tivate their  virtues  or  enable  them  to  overcome  their  vices.  It 
has  been  said  that  despair  is  the  unpardonable  sin;  for  it  para- 
lyzes every  sentiment  that  leads  to  virtue  or  happiness.  To  help 
us  do  our  duty,  we  must  cherish  hope,  which  gives  us  courage 
and  charity,  which  gives  us  hopes  for  others.  For  this  reason, 
when  Governor  of  this  State,  I  did  all  I  could  to  gain  the  passage 
of  laws  which  enable  each  one  of  you,  by  good  conduct,  to  shorten 
the  term  of  your  imprisonment;  and  if  I  had  my  Avay,  you  would 
have  a  share  in  the  profits  of  your  labor.  But  I  stand  before  you 
to-day  to  speak  of  another  ground  of  hope,  of  a  higher  and  more 
lasting  character  than  mere  gain  or  shortened  terms  of  punish- 
ment; and  what  I  have  to  say  does  not  point  to  you  alone,  but  to 
men  of  all  conditions.  I  do  not  mean  to  take  the  place  of  those 
who  teach  you  your  religious  duties.  They  are  far  more  able 
than  I  am  to  make  these  clear  to  your  minds;  yet  it  is  sometimes 
the  case  that  we  see  things  in  lights  in  which  they  are  not  usually 
placed  before  us,  and  some  thoughts  which  have  occurred  to  me, 
in  a»review  of  my  life,  may  be  of  interest  and  value  to  you. 
When  we  grow  old,  we  are  struck  with  the  fleetness  of  time;  our 
lives  seem  to  be  compassed  into  one  brief  period;  we  suddenly 
find  that  pursuits  we  have  followed  are  closed,  and  we  are  con- 
fronted with  the  question,  not  what  we  have  gained,  nor  what 
positions  we  have  held,  but  what  we  are  in  ourselves.  AVe  know 
it  is  our  duty  to  do  what  is  right,  and  to  avoid  doing  wrong,  but 
when  we  look  back,  if  we  add  up  all  of  our  good  deeds  on  the 
one  hand,  and  our  bad  acts  on  the  other,  we  find  a  startling 
balance  against  us.     When  men   reach   my  time  of  life,  their 


—  83  — 

minds  turn  toward  the  past,  and  they  travel  backward  the  paths 
they  have  followed.  They  see  things  from  the  opposite  side  from 
which  they  were  "vdewed  in  youth  onward,  and  are  struck  by 
truths  which  never  break  upon  their  minds  until  they  look  back 
upon  them. 

Sitting  before  my  fire  on  a  winter  evening,  and  musing,  as  old 
men  are  apt  to  do,  about  their  acts,  their  errors,  their  successes, 
or  their  failures,  it  occurred  to  me  what  I  would  do  if  I  had  the 
power,  and  was  compelled  to  wipe  out  twenty  acts  of  my  life.  At 
first  it  seemed  as  if  this  was  an  easy  thing  to  do.  I  had  done 
more  than  twenty  wrong  things  for  which  I  had  always  felt 
regret,  and  was  about  to  seize  my  imaginary  sponge  and  rub 
them  out  at  once,  but  I  thought  it  best  to  move  with  care,  to  do 
as  I  had  done  to  others,  lay  my  character  out  upon  the  dissecting 
table  and  trace  all  influences  which  had  made  or  marred  it.  I 
found,  to  my  surprise,  if  there  were  any  golden  threads  running 
through  it,  they  were  wrought  out  by  the  regrets  felt  at  wrongs; 
that  these  regrets  had  run  through  the  course  of  my  life,  guiding 
my  footsteps  through  all  its  intricacies  and  problems;  and  if  I 
should  obliterate  all  of  these  acts,  to  which  these  golden  threads 
were  attached,  whose  lengthening  lines  w'ere  woven  into  my  very 
nature,  I  should  destroy  what  little  there  was  of  virtue  in  my 
moral  make-up.  Then  I  learned  that  the  wrong  act,  followed  by 
the  just  regret,  and  by  thoughtful  caution  to  avoid  like  errors, 
made  me  a  better  man  than  I  should  have  been  if  I  had  never 
fallen.  In  this,  I  found  hope  for  myself  and  hope  for  others,  and 
I  tell  you  who  sit  before  me,  as  I  say  to  all  in  every  condition, 
that  if  you  ^vill  you  can  make  yourselves  better  men  than  if  you 
had  never  fallen  into  errors  or  crimes.  A  man's  destiny  does  not 
turn  upon  the  fact  of  his  doing  or  not  doing  wrong — for  all  men 
will  do  it — but  of  how  he  bears  himself,  w'hat  he  does  and  what 
he  thinks,  after  the  wrong  act.  It  was  well  said  by  Confucius, 
that  a  man's  character  is  decided,  not  b}'  the  number  of  times  he 
falls,  but  by  the  number  of  tinies  he  lifts  himself  up.  I  do  not 
know  why  evil  is  permitted  in  this  world,  but  I  do  know  that 
each  one  of  us  has  the  magical  power  to  transmute  it  into  good. 
Every  one  before  me  can,  if  he  will,  make  his  past  errors  sources 
of  moral  elevation.  Is  this  not  a  grand  thought,  which  should 
not  only  give  us  hope,  but  which  should  inspire  us  with  firm 


—  84  — 

purposes  to  exercise  this  power  which  makes  us  akin  to  the 
Almighty;  for  He  has  given  it  to  us  and  has  pointed  out  in  His 
words  how  we  sliall  use  it.  The  prohlem  meets  us  at  every  step. 
There  is  nothing  v/e  do  which  will  not  make  us  better  or  worse. 
I  do  not  speak  merely  of  great  events,  but  of  the  thoughts  upon 
our  beds,  the  toil  in  the  workshop,  and  the  little  duties  which 
attend  every  hour.  God,  in  His  goodness,  does  not  judge  us  so 
much  b}'^  what  we  do;  but  when  we  have  done  things,  right  or 
wrong,  our  destiny  mainly  turns  upon  what  we  think  and  do  after 
their  occurrence.  It  is  then  we  decide  if  they  shall  lift  us  up  to 
a  higher  level,  or  bear  us  down  to  a  lower  grade  of  morals.  Our 
acts  mainh'-  spring  from  impulses  or  accidents — the  sudden  temp- 
tation, imperfect  knowledge,  or  erring  judgment.  It  is  the  after- 
thought that  gives  them  their  hue.  The  world  may  not  see  this; 
it  may  frown  upon  the  deed  and  upon  the  man.  who,  nevertheless, 
by  his  regrets,  makes  it  one  which  shall  minister  to  purity  and 
^drtue  in  all  his  after-life.  You,  who  sit  before  me,  in  some  ways 
have  advantages  over  other  men  whose  minds  are  agitated  by 
the  hopes  and  fears  of  active  pursuits,  who  find  no  time  for 
thoughts  which  tend  to  virtue  and  to  happiness.  AVith  each  of 
you,  in  a  little  time,  the  great  question  will  be — not  if  you  are  to 
be  set  free,  not  what  the  world  thinks  of  you,  not  what  3'ou  have — 
but  what  you  are ;  for  death  often  knocks  at  the  door  of  your  cells, 
and  some  of  your  number  are  carried  from  their  narrow  walls  to 
the  more  narrow  walls  of  the  grave. 

Let  it  not  be  thought  that  I  prove  wrong  may  be  done  so  that 
good  may  follow.  With  Saint  Paul,  I  protest  against  such  infer- 
ence from  the  truth  that  men  are  saved  by  repentance  of  their 
sins. 

But  let  us  look  farther  into  this  subject,  for  it  deeply  concerns 
us.  Though  we  are  unable  to  recall  the  errors  of  the  past,  we 
may  so  deal  with  them  that  they  may  promote  our  virtue,  our 
wisdom,  and  happiness.  Upon  this  point  I  am  not  theorizing. 
Whoever  thinks,  will  learn  that  human  experience  proves  this. 
Let  us  take  the  case  of  our  errors.  We  should  find,  if  we  could 
rub  them  all  out,  that  we  should  destroy  the  wisdom  they  have 
given  us,  if  we  have  taken  care  to  make  our  errors  teach  us  wis- 
dom. Who  could  spare  their  sorrows?  How  much  that  is  kind 
and  sympathetic  in  our  natures,  which  leads  us  to  minister  to  the 


—  85  — 

griefs  of  others,  and  thus  to  gain  consolations  for  ourselves,  grow 
out  of  what  are  felt  as  keen  calamities  when  they  befall  us. 

Following  out  the  line  of  my  thoughts,  when  I  assumed  that  I 
had  the  power  and  was  compelled  to  drown  in  Lethean  waters 
certain  acts,  I  found  I  could  not  spare  errors  which  call  forth 
regrets,  mistakes  which  teach  us  wisdom,  or  the  sorrows  which 
soften  character  and  make  us  sensible  of  the  sympathies  which 
give  beauty  to  the  intercourse  of  life.  As  I  had  to  obliterate 
twenty  events,  I  found  I  could  best  spare  the  successes  or  triumphs 
which  had  only  served  to  impart  courage  in  the  battle  of  life  and 
had  but  little  influence  in  forming  character.  It  is  true,  that 
wherever  and  whatever  we  are,  we  can  so  deal  with  the  past,  that 
we  can  make  it  give  up  to  us  ^^rtue  and  wisdom.  We  can,  by 
our  regrets,  do  more  than  the  alchemist  aims  at  when  he  seeks  to 
transmute  base  metals  into  gold,  for  we  can  make  wrong  the  seed 
of  right  and  righteousness;  we  can  transmute  error  into  wisdom; 
we  can  make  sorrow  bloom  into  a  thousand  forms  like  fragrant 
flowers.  These  great  truths  should  not  only  give  us  contentment 
with  our  positions,  but  hope  for  the  future.  The  great  question, 
what  are  we,  presses  itself  upon  us  as  we  grow  old,  or  flashes  upon 
us  when  our  lives  are  cut  short  by  accident  or  disease.  Within 
these  walls,  but  few  days  pass  without  that  question  being  forced 
upon  the  minds  of  some  who  have  reached  the  end  of  life's  jour- 
ney. Surely,  it  should  give  hope  and  consolation  to  all  to  feel 
that  they  can,  in  the  solitude  of  the  cell,  or  in  the  gloom  of  the 
prison,  by  thought,  by  self-examination,  make  the  past,  with  its 
crimes,  its  errors,  and  its  sorrows,  the  very  means  by  which  they 
can  lift  themselves  into  higher  and  happier  conditions.  This 
work  of  transmuting  evil  into  good,  is  a  duty  to  be  done  by  all 
conditions  of  men,  and  it  can  be  wrought  out  as  well  in  the  pris- 
oner's cell,  as  in  the  highest  and  most  honorable  position,  for 
when  you  do  this,  you  work  by  the  side  of  the  Almighty.  All 
human  experience  accords  with  the  higher  teachings  of  religion, 
that  holds  out  hope  to  men  who  feel  regret  for  every  e\dl  act.  I 
wish  to  call  your  minds  to  that  amazing  truth,  that  there  is  a 
Being  who  rules  the  world  with  such  benevolence,  that  He 
enables  weak  and  erring  mortals,  if  the}^  will,  to  turn  their  very 
sorrows  and  errors  into  sources  of  happiness. 

We  have  many  theories  in  these  days  in  which  men  try  to  tell 


—  86  — 

us  how  the  world,  acting  upon  certain  fixed  laws,  has  made  itself; 
that  it  goes  on  by  a  progress  that  regards  nothing  but  certain 
rules  of  advancement,  regardless  of  all  other  considerations  save 
their  own  irresistible  self-compelling  principles.  But  here  we 
have  a  truth  not  only  given  us  in  Holy  Writ,  but  proved  by  our 
experience,  that  mental  regret  will  convert  a  material  wrong  into 
a  blessing,  or,  if  the  offender  wills  it,  will  make  the  same  a  hun- 
dredfold more  hurtful  if  he  rejoices  in  his  wrong-doing,  or 
hardens  his  heart  against  regret.  Materialism,  evolution,  pan- 
theism, or  any  of  the  theories  which  deny  the  government  of  an 
intelligent  God,  are  all  phases  of  fatalism,  and  are  confuted  by 
this  truth,  that  we  can,  by  conforming  to  His  laws,  which  demand 
repentance,  convert  evil  into  good,  or  by  violating  them  make  evil 
tenfold  more  deadly  and  destructive.  We  can,  by  our  own  minds 
and  sentiments,  change  the  influence  of  material  events,  and  vary 
the  action  of  laws  which  govern  the  world.  If  man,  with  all  his 
weakness,  can  do  this,  it  can  only  be  by  the  aid  of  a  higher  power 
which  shapes,  directs,  and  regulates. 

I  know  that  what  I  have  said  is  but  an  imperfect  statement  of 
great  truths,  compared  with  the  teachings  of  the  pulpit  which 
you  hear  every  Sunday.  As  my  purpose  is  merely  to  speak  to  you 
of  what  I  have  learned  in  the  walks  of  life,  I  can  give  you  from 
this  narrow  field  but  partial  views  of  great  truths.  They  may  be 
of  no  value  to  you,  yet  I  trust  you  will  accept  them  at  least  as 
proof  of  my  sympathies  with  your  condition  and  sorrows,  for  if 
any  ambition  lingers  in  the  breast  of  him  who  speaks  to  you  now, 
it  is  that  he  may  be  the  friend  and  adviser  of  the  erring  and 
wrong-doer.  He  has  been  taught  by  self-examination  and  the 
study  of  others,  that  we  all  belong  to  that  class,  and  that  we  owe 
to  one  another  any  aid  we  can  give  to  our  fellows  when  they  fall 
by  the  wayside. 


87  — 


BE  CAREFUL  WHAT  YOU  SAY. 

In  speaking  of  a  person's  faults, 

Pray  don't  forget  your  own; 
Remember  those  with  homes  of  glass, 

Should  seldom  throw  a  stone; 
If  we  have  nothing  else  to  do 

But  talk  of  those  who  sin, 
'Tis  better  we  commence  at  home, 

And  from  that  point  begin. 

We  have  no  right  to  judge  a  man, 

Until  he's  fairly  tried; 
Should  we  not  like  his  company. 

We  know  the  world  is  wide. 
Some  may  have  faults— and  who  has  not?- 

The  old  as  well  as  young; 
Perhaps  we  may,  for  aught  we  know, 

Have  fifty  to  their  one. 

I'll  tell  you  of  a  better  plan, 

And  find  it  works  full  w^ell; 
To  try  my  own  defects  to  cure 

Before  of  others'  tell; 
And  though  I  sometimes  hope  to  be 

No  worse  than  some  I  know, 
My  own  shortcomings  bid  me  let 

The  faults  of  others  go. 

Then  let  us  all,  when  we  commence 

To  slander  friend  or  foe, 
Think  of  the  harm  one  word  would  do 

To  those  we  little  know. 
Remember  curses,  sometimes,  hke 

Our  chickens,  "  roost  at  home;" 
Don't  speak  of  others'  faults  until 

We  have  none  of  our  own. 


—  88  — 


THE  PRISON  BELL.* 

It  was  night,  and  in  my  lonely  ceil, 

The  pale  moon's  playful  shadows  fell 

So  bright,  I  dreamt  that  all  on  earth 

Was  changed  once  more  to  smiles  and  mirth. 

The  morning  dawned,  the  rising  sun 
His  glorious  course  through  heaven  begun, 
When  honest  man,  with  heartfelt  strides, 
Goes  whistling  by  the  prison  sides. 

While  I,  in  bonds,  with  heart  downcast, 
Deep  grieving  present  and  the  past. 
Lay  half  unconscious  in  my  cell, 
'Till  summoned  by  the  prison  bell. 

Day  passed;  and  when  all  days  are  passed. 

And  I  on  death's  waves  am  cast, 

May  I  a  pitying  Savior  see, 

To  let  this  captive  prisoner  free ! 

To  see  the  joys  that  heart  can't  tell. 

To  hear  no  more  the  prison  bell. 

*Deae  Brothers:  This  was  written  by  one  who  was  a  thief  for  forty-six 
years,  and  was  a  prisoner  thirty-five  years  in  eleven  different  prisons,  but  who 
has  found  out,  by  the  grace  of  God,  through  the  blood  of  Christ,  that  honest 
labor  has  its  reward. 


—  89  — 


IN    PRISON. 

God  pity  the  wretched  prisoner, 

In  his  lonely  cell  to-day, 
Whatever  the  sin  that  tripped  him, 

God  pity  him  still  I  pray. 
Only  a  glimpse  of  sunshine, 

Through  the  walls  of  stone, 
Only  a  patch  of  azure 

To  starve  his  hopes  upon: 
Only  surging  memories 

Of  "a  past  that  is  better  gone ; 
Only  scorn  from  woman, 

Only  hate  from  men; 
Only  remorse  to  whisper 

Of  a  life  that  might  have  been ! 
Once  we  were  little  children. 

And  then  our  unstained  feet 
Were  led  by  a  gentle  mother. 

Towards  the  golden  street. 
Therefore  if  in  life's  forest 

We  since  have  lost  our  way. 
For  the  sake  of  her  who  loved  us, 

God  pity  us  still  I  pray. 
0  Mother,  gone  to  heaven! 

With  earnest  prayer  I  ask 
That  your  eye  may  not  look  earthward 

On  the  failure  of  your  task! 
For  even  in  those  mansions. 

The  choking  tears  would  rise, 
Though  the  fairest  hand  in  heaven 

Should  wipe  them  from  your  eyes. 
And  you  who  judge  us  harshly — 

Are  you  sure  the  stumbling  stone. 
That  tripped  the  feet  of  others, 

INIight  not  have  bruised  your  own? 


—  90  — 

Are  you  sure  the  sad-faced  angel 

Who  writes  our  errors  down, 
Will  ascribe  to  you  more  honor. 

Than  him  on  whom  you  frown  ? 
Or  if  a  steadier  purpose 

Unto  your  life  be  given, 
A  stronger  will  to  conquer, 

A  smoother  path  to  heaven — 
If  when  temptations  meet  you, 

You  crush  them  with  a  smile. 
If  you  can  chain  pale  Passion, 

And  keep  your  lips  from  guile- 
Then  bless  the  hand  that  crowned  3^ou! 

Remembering  as  you  go, 
It  was  not  your  own  endeavor 

That  shaped  your  nature  so; 
And  sneer  not  at  the  weakness 

Which  made  a  brother  fail. 
For  the  hand  that  lifts  the  fallen, 
God  loves  the  best  of  all. 


